I wake with an ache in my joints and lightning shooting down my leg.

My cycle changing with long, drawn out bleeding; enough to stain my bed.

I rub my eyes, bringing my vision back into focus.

I’m greeted by the sight of my mother’s hands.

My mother’s hands make my children breakfast.

My mother’s hands cup their tiny faces before grazing tiny noses with a kiss.

I catch a glance in the mirror as I walk past; my dark circles are a reflection of this season of life.