The Quiet Work of Love

The alarm rings early, and I rise,
not for myself, but for a boy
who waits on frozen ice,
for wheels that spin on mountain trails,
for talks that stitch together
the quiet fabric of his growing years.

I lace my days with yardwork,
laundry folded into small monuments,
meals stirred with weary hands,
floors swept of dust but never of love.
This is not martyrdom—
this is the quiet work of love,
done without scoreboard or applause.

Two hours of highway each day,
time I cannot keep for myself,
yet I give it anyway,
trading silence and solitude
for a roof, for stability, for him.
Even as another close,
instead of seeing the cost,
found fault where there should be thanks,
complaints where there should be quiet respect.

My mind bears the shadows
of serving a flag,
tasks unspoken,
memories locked behind the ribs,
yet I return to serve again—
in hospitals, at bedsides,
for a quarter-century of need.

The cost is high:
free time surrendered,
health strained,
a self worn thin like old denim.
But if you ask why I give,
the answer is simple—
because love does not keep score,
does not call itself a sacrifice.

It is a father’s way:
to hold the weight of the world,
even when another refuses to see it,
so his son may carry only his dreams.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.