They\'re
gone.
Not dead,
just
Not
here.
Not here
To be fed, or to nourish me with a smile.
Not here
For me to wipe away their tears, or notice mine as they stream involuntarily
down
uncertain wobbling cheeks.
Of course I know it\'s healthy,
Am humbled by their nerve, striking out.
Not needing
To return daily to the refuge of home.
Not needing
To be fed, to be welcomed.
Yet the devastation hits me
In waves.
A seismic pain rising up to
Knock me down
In my new not-needed-ness.
A different Mum now.