Maverick

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.