This morning I took my youngest (who is fifteen and a half)
to his father’s and
I walked back slowly knowing I will not see him for a month
And while I’m certain he will be loved and cared for and will have laughter in the sun
Of a summer we could only dream of just weeks ago
I miss him in a way that makes me feel dumb
For now there is little wisdom to my years,
Just his absence
And a fittingly nostalgic pale blue sky
That I shall stare at as I sip on tea
Until I manage to turn this heavy ship around from silly voices
and board games and long forest walks with serious talks and pizza dough and tennis, made-up songs and warm milk with honey
And turn my attentions to serious pursuits
of more intellectual worth,
That simply cannot be taken care of
when there are children present to be
loved
