It's not like she's gone forever. My last child still occasionally living at home has gone again. She is once again traveling to exotic places for a few months. I don't blame her. This is her time. But I do miss her. And I miss our Sunday morning coffee chats. And missing her reminds me of how much I miss all of my children.
My poet's heart feels the collective loss of four children grown and moving on deeply. I am holding the celebration of seeing them move into their adulthood and grief of watching them leave their childhood all at once. It is an awkward load. I am the older person shouting to the haggard parents now, “It goes by way too fast”. You won't remember how tired you were and how much you just want a minute alone.
Stopped for coffee The way we used to On Sunday mornings You are not here This isn't our cafe In fact it's not even a cafe Country music is playing The coffee is in sturdy white mugs Not the fine china We have been accustomed to But nothing is the same without you anyways So I didn't even try It is hard to describe The ache in my heart When I realize I can never go back Only forward Forward is not terrible The eggs here are amazing With a splash of hot sauce.
Even with a not quite toddler and a sprawling sapling of an 8 year old, I appreciate the urgency. It slips through our fingers, time like sand.