There isn't much to say. The kids are gone.
Their mother just got back from here and there.
I cleaned a bit. A thing I'm working on
Might occupy some time. But everywhere
I turn, I see the space where they should be.
As though a chalk line hovered in the air,
The phantom itching of an amputee,
This emptiness that no one else can see.
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Alysa Salzberg
Melissa Miles McCarter
Scarlett Sumac
jlsathre
Matt Paust
Jowita Bydlowska
Salon.com
Comments
"No one else can see," but many can feel. I feel this both in remembrance and in present company. I remember sitting on my front porch on about the morning of the third day when my children were young and gone for awhile. My legs were tucked beneath me, and I think I sat there waiting for the neighbor's children to wake and venture forth to summer. I wanted children present as you do now. I wanted my children. There is agony in divorce. I wish you grace.
Tonight's poem ("Journal") took a little too long to write, and I have to get to bed. But thank you all so much for stopping by, and for your words of encouragement. I'm catching up on many things that went undone while the kids were with me. I hope to be more talkative tomorrow.
Thanks again, to all of you.