Leavetaking
The one thing I can promise
is that I’ll leave you, someday:
for what is life but one long leave-taking —
first of the child in us, bundled in a woolen coat and packed off to play somewhere
(outside, with Grandma, in the old yellow house of our childhood with the shiny floors and kitchen that smelled of cookies and sunshine);
then the first friends who played with us
(in garages, basements, backyards; took dares; raced on bicycles; traded lunches in dingy cafeterias);
the teachers who told us to listen
(pay attention, be quiet, raise your hand, study, don’t cheat, don’t tattle, don’t whisper);
the mystical first crushes
(sneaking notes in class and into lockers, looks across the hall, kisses when the bell rang);
and the older friends who journeyed with us
(to cross-country meets, swim meets, football games, movie theaters, mini golf, mudrides, and every school dance).
Then we take leave of those who stay with us longer:
our parents, who never quite dissolve from the frame but still close the door behind us on our way out;
lovers past, whose memories hold an essence of loss, even though they weren’t The One;
the One we found and cared for, lived with, married, built a life around;
the friends who partied, studied, traveled, cried and laughed with us —
all these we must leave.
And then, we leave our children.
Yes, even now, as I awaken at dawn to see your face cupped against mine, sweet as a blossom
(long dark lashes, soft round nose, parted pink lips, septum pale and smooth as porcelain, dew- damp tendrils of baby hair curling around your rosy ear) —
this moment when we cling together
(your heartbeat pattering like raindrops against the smooth rise and fall of my chest)
is but a flash of light on water as the separate rivers of our lives meet and flow along the same banks as one, just for a time.
I will leave you, my child, of this you can be sure.
But I will never love you less, even as I drift away.
