in the chests of my heart.
What can I say. I cried a good bit on the way back the unwinding ribbon of loss.
The reflective center lines like bright stitches tracing home;
a seaming of what once was a seemingly whole become torn away
thread by thread from the moment of conception.
Our children are not our own this unraveling speaks time and time again,
but God's gifts for a brief span of days;
a slipping hold of silken light and love and miracles.
What commotions of years and experiences are wound in a heap of wonder
that only long walking together can give.
The child tended and nurtured and loved left in a strange, far away country of letting go.
Coming home,
sadness, the pale and vaporous companion,
followed me a couple of days:
a gauzy overlapping of what was and what is:
veiling his quiet laugh; his footsteps up the porch steps;
his reading on the couch or sleeping.
Then it was over.
The food ration was lifted. Hooray!
But how I miss our late night reading in the same room and the cadences of our conversing.
How I miss the boy turned into a man while I was out.
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