it's difficult to see your mother go

especially after you already
said goodbye once before.

to hug her and kiss her on her wrinkling
cheek, before watching her slip into her
car to leave, is enough for any son to want
to be six again:

to put on her pearls and your father’s
tie for dress up games with your younger
brother; to build a fort from glued-together
cardboard you found in your attic, or
swing full force on a ball at your
first little league game, (and barely tap it enough to
leave the tea); to rollerblade over to your
best friend’s house at 7 a.m. to
start the day young and play until the lights
in the street go down, signaling the time
for boat rides on the neighborhood’s
crystal cool lake; and then by bed time,
to lie beneath your sheets
and gaze into your mother’s smiling face
reaching in to kiss your cheek
goodnight, to know even in your
young, unblemished heart that no matter how
tough life could ever get, you’d have her near by
to help you through it. 

it’s difficult to see your mother go,
after you already left for college and
are living on your own.

to see her drive away and think
that she’s thinking her life is coming
to a close, to wave goodbye and walk back
to your room.

it’s difficult to see your mother go.