What happened to us
not all at once,
but in the quiet places
where we once lived?
What happened to our dinner nights,
to flowers waiting at the door every Friday?
What happened to night cuddles,
to soft touches,
and whispers of sweet nothings?
What happened to gifts at birthdays,
to the thought behind them,
to giving just to see each other smile?
What happened to sitting by the riverbanks,
watching the sunset every Saturday,
our hands finding each other
without asking?
What happened to going to church together
sometimes walking,
sometimes driving in the same car—
you holding one child,
the baby one,
and me in the middle holding the other?
What happened to you behind me in the kitchen,
your arms wrapped around my waist
while life simmered on the stove?
What happened to morning kisses,
to “have a good day,”
to meeting at lunchtime,
running away from everything
just to be near?
What happened to taking turns caring for our children
one feeding,
the other giving baths
a sweet blend of shared responsibility,
where love showed itself in doing,
and in equality
(a place without roles,
a quiet reminder
that we were one)?
What happened to the quick things—
quick shopping,
quick drop-offs,
quick pick-ups,
quick everything,
and everything in between quicks—
the stolen moments
when the children weren’t watching?
What happened?
Or did we slowly put it down,
piece by piece,
until one day
there was nothing left
but the question
What happened to us!
A poem by Joan Roberts
