we tuck in little girls and fulfill requests like
more light, less light, music, fresh water.
we hug, kiss, pray.
we close the door with "goodnight little girls":
"mama loves you. tomorrow is ballet and we'll make art," i say on a monday night.
"i love you, you can wake me up in the morning and we'll play Wii," he says on a saturday.
there may have been baths and hair braiding first,
a pile of giggling in the recliner over Junie B. Jones
or chapters of The Jesus Storybook Bible, Mama reading through grateful tears.
we may be at the end of what we have to give,
or we may reluctantly tuck them in,
wishing there was more time in the pockets of today.
the evening comes every 24 hours
and it looks different, yet the same
because no matter what, there is love,