I imagined the house quiet, after they’d left. I could hear the memory of their voices as they were now, an echo. I could feel my heart pull in the way a hand contracts to a fist, the way a tide recedes as it pulls out, the sound as everything settles down and softens. And all there was was loss for all I didn’t do now. So I called out goodnight and they called back, and when I woke the next morning I rose the same as I did any other day, not knowing any more than the last.

Categories: parenting, poetry, prose, writing

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

9 replies

  1. Reminds me of something I just read of Marilynne Robinson’s on grace:
    “Beauty is reciprocal. Beauty disciplines. Understanding any moment as a thing that can bless time or come to poison it.”

    Liked by 2 people

  2. each day is a roll of the dice

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Sentiment doesn’t translate well into action, in my experience.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Sounds of the house resonate in verse that strikes a cords for all to hold close. as we all continue with our journeys. Bubba, says well done.

    Liked by 1 person

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