flood in the laundry room

The flood finally overcame her,
there in the laundry room.

The children’s noise was too much 
and she was harsh with them,
angry at their stupid fights over blankets
and who gets the toaster first
as if any of that matters when the world is crumbling.

She yelled them away,
not gently,
and stormed into the laundry room
seeking solace in sorting
and songs to lift her head

But the socks were too heavy,
and her legs gave way

She crumbled to the concrete
back against the washing machine
and the flood washed over
poured down her face
sucked out her breath

the waves smashed her face with grief
and she didn’t get up.

She didn’t get up
and the waves crashed
and her son found her there
with her face on a grubby towel
gasping for breath
under relentless waves

What does a son do with this?
With a mother on the floor?

He could have turned around and pretended not to see her,
Backed out of the room,
away from the unfixable problem.

She didn’t get up,
and he didn’t run out.

She didn’t get up
and he got down with her,
there on the concrete,
down under the waves,
and he leaned against the washing machine,
and let her feel his head on her shoulder,
and he didn’t run from the flood.

And he whispered quietly,
words beyond his years,
“You don’t have to talk about it.”

He stayed
as long as the flood raged

Was it hours or moments or years?
He stayed,
head on her shoulder
quietly,
resolutely,
present.

and she was not alone.