In her study at the corner of the house,
where fun wilts, and stress blossoms,
my mom repeats her cycle of work.

I pause in the hall, hearing
computer keys pressed at blazing speed,
forming a grant for research at the college.

Aged she is, her work buries
her neck deep, preventing her from
leaving, only allowing her to sometimes breathe.

Silence, nighttime, and she is still working.
The hours slip by as she digs out of
the hole encasing her.

Rewind 17 years to the day of my birth.
A life was born and another would start
Its path towards death.

Like an hourglass, each grain
of happiness fell out of the top and
entered its way into me.

My life was her death.
From that point on, she lived and
worked, burying herself alive for me.

Fast-forward 17 years and the
stresses of work have left her
gas tank nearly empty running on fumes.

It was always a matter, my mother
of being happy and living your life.
Less work more play, and soon
you could exit the cycle that
covers you deeper and deeper
day by day.