The Caregiver, Uncounted
We live in the shade.
We live in the quiet.
We live in the mundane and rarely eventful —
or so it appears to those outside,
witnessed from a distance, not within.
Distance is the qualifier of our lives.
Isolated, forgotten, ignored.
Discreetly, with no ill‑intention.
Simply there, unconsidered.
What they do not see, we still must carry.
What they do not hear, we still must feel.
The noise no one else hears.
The sound no one else notices.
The sleepless hours no one counts.
The pain beneath our words no one heeds —
not even ourselves, at times.
We, who speak in absolutes,
are minimized by those who trivialize and amplify.
We do not exaggerate. We do not inflate.
But to the daily embellishers,
we look the same.
Those outside never hear the truths of inside.
We are haunted behind our eyes,
carrying the reality of our daily lives.
Only the indispensable sleep lightly.
Peace of mind is a luxury of the unburdened.
This is the price of that imagined quiet,
paid by those who cannot look away,
and cannot make a stranger of one who was once beloved,
and, oftentimes, still is — a stranger, though they may now be.
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