Wake up grumpy
tired
much older than yesterday.

Day fifty-seven,
an irrationally
not nice
non-round number,
since defiantly challenging daughter,
with the contextual right-brain unhealthy intelligence
of a sociopathic alligator,
last came home from school
or anywhere without me.

Remembering her school’s response
when I suggested her six-hours-per-day aide
five days per week
not be switched out every week
or two.
She doesn’t do well with transitions
including interpersonal change,
lack of power to control
a significant Other’s time
to stay
and go.

While aware this is an issue,
their larger concern was burn-out.
Aides couldn’t tolerate the intensity
of her hostility
and constant need
need
need for attention,
for food,
for distraction,
for action,
for…

Wondering how the best of her school supporters
would feel after 228 consecutive
six-hour shifts

Without any supervisor
capable of reassuring me
or him
or her
or them
or us
of how many more to go
without adequate social distancing
within our lumpy quarantine space.

No possible reassurance
or warning
we’re just getting started,
about to end,
over the hump,
or not so much,
actually.

Perfect.

Definite only about feeling humped out
and jumped in
lack of ease,
sucked out potential for unguarded rest.

Feeling sorry for myself,
yes,
but also for her,
and for all of us
who have taken risks
to give long-term care
where receiving care in response
is not a reasonable
or compassionate
expectation of hope-filled ways,
faithful truths,
loving lives

Quietly waking up grumpy
in unsolidarity
unsolitary confinement.