Separation Anxiety

This morning the streets were filled
With rain and pink girls,
Three-quarters hidden by their umbrellas,
Clusters of large blooming plastic flowers, jostling to school,
The only brightness in the slate gray day.

Young mothers talked to their babies in strollers,
Leaning over, rain bouncing wildly off the lids of their coffee cups.
“No, don’t worry, Mommy’s here, she’s here.”

I am here.
Twenty-four years after you slid into the world,
Gleaming, eyes open, nothing to fear —

Now, this year,
Back upstairs in this empty gift box of your bedroom,
Shaking out my wet clothes,
Trying to fathom the distance between there and here.

It was like this when they took you away
To weigh and measure you,
With me, still splayed like a slingshot,
Still catapulted into love.

For two decades I lied, pretending we were separate beings.
I made you let go when you held too tight.
Whenever you faltered, I told you you were strong.
How dare you prove me right?

What can I keep?
I pack your childhood into sagging file boxes
Soft bunnies, blankets, diaries I’ve wisely never read,
A tiny pink plastic flower.
The smallest pillow from your smallest bed.

Perhaps I will always expect you here, reaching up for me,
Your petal-like hands on my cheeks,
A raindrop caught on your eyelid.
“I’m making you pretty,” your song would start.

We mothers were daughters, you know,
The ropes between us are so thick they can lasso the beating heart.