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.