Friday, October 26, 2012

The Rhythm of Leaving

There is a rhythm to leaving

Time is marked in events
Measured in documents turned in
Not the smell of new skin
A baby smacking when removed from my breast
A sweaty head napping in my lap
I move slower, making sure I see,
but underneath my pulse races.
A skin tag has formed under my right eye
Me at work while
My son is driving, somewhere 
my sister moving away
And then, the permit--
My daughter's face beaming.

There is a rhythm to leaving

A mean pulling away
that starts with a roll of the eyes
followed by a few thousand more.
There is a slammed door,
followed by a silence that makes
me wonder
if I'm fit to wear the title.

In between the tiny tearings away, love is shared
a new download, a poem, an intricate
breakdown of a piece of literature
too hard for even me. A connection, a scripture,
and still a long lingering hug,
fingers pressing on my furrowed brow, a silent saying, don't worry,
don't worry,
from people I worry about too much.

Rise up and call me what you will.
Just as long as you rise up, little ones. Rise up.