Liquid Gold

It hurts to miss
my babies
on sad-eyed days it's
as if
I have an aching sob trapped up
in between
my belly and my ragged eyes...

I find myself wanting
Today I am missing
my grown up (for the most part) dear children.
Where are they, my babies?
My dear 'first born' chief of a boy
with endless satire and wit
(he needed me-I needed him, too...)
and my dear second born sweet girl with beauty
I never thought was possible to find
in this day
in this life
She is smart
pretty
and so discerning
She is still a wonder to me
This woman-girl
now turned 21

The years rolled by
I walked through the days
as Mother
of the Marvelous
to my sweet bright beautiful and fearless
children.
They were bounding through life.
My 'constant companions...' (as I lovingly named them)
were mostly
side by my side.
And we had our  strong 'Dada-'
the man of the house;
a man whose soul
is so immense that it fills the big planet
with peace, hope,
joy
and with love.
We were lucky 

in this regard.

I spent my days watching them grow.
And we daily 'dreamed up' things we could do....
(We had our fun!)
We walked on the beach
We read our stories
We stared at animals

Played with our food
Oh the years of plastic animals! 

Horses, cows, and dogs standing solemn 

in a line

all about the living room floor. 

Those friends!

Legos shaped projects

Star Wars

in buckets and piles

assembled to stand

as a tribute...

All the many projects

in preparation

for the great unknown

that waits ahead.

I served them by driving them some and sitting with them
and tending to their many needs...
these were all (in their own way) indescribably precious times
stacked up to complete
the person I was
I was becoming
they were becoming
we became
we saw
we went

The young man
and woman on the verge
have grown up now
for the most part
and they don't need me like they used to
at 26
and now (just)
21...

One is away-
while
the other
is
away a lot 

but she is here?

Our times-
our seasons
that were filled with love and flavor
are not unlike the misty mountain vapor
that is
bound to rise
and reassemble
over the next mountain ridge.



© Karen Powell