Pass the parcel

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



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