The Mothers

How can I tell you

the fear of leaving this

landscape both

terrible and kind

when small hands

were pocketed

in our own,

our voices

sang stories

of imaginary bear hunts

and our laps creased

rocking chairs,

soft wisps of air

brushing our cheeks.

The exodus began long ago

before we were ready,

with their car keys in pockets

and backpacks crammed with

devices for learning to leave,

returning but never

to what was.

And together

we push

against the precipice

of beginning

and ending,

leaning wearily

where once

we stood

with confidence,

the map we held

firm in our hands.