When she lived with me, I knew her life. The shape of her days, the small things, what was on her mind.

I still want that. I want to be the person she tells. Maybe because she’s my only child. Maybe because somewhere along the way, she became my whole life.

I know this longing from the other side, too. I wish I’d spent more time with my mother. Really enjoyed her. Breathed her in. As a child, you think your parents will be here forever. You know people die, but that feels so far away. You don’t realize how fast it happens. The same way you don’t realize how fast your child grows up.

That’s the beauty of life, and the saddest part of it.

If you’re a mother who knows this longing, you’re not the only one.

Little Birds

Something in me has gone quiet,
further down than sleep.
I stand at the window of my own life
and can't find the latch
to let myself back in.

The house is the same size.
It only feels bigger.
Her door stays open
because closing it would mean something.

Little birds learn to fly.
That was always the plan.
I showed her the sky myself,
pointed at it for years,
said go.

And she went,
far, the way they do.
I still want the small things,
the calls about nothing,
her days told back to me.

I didn't know what my elders were to me
until I'd lived long enough
to count who was left.
She'll learn it the same way.
I only have to still be here.

Nobody tells the mother bird
what to do with the nest after.
So I do what mothers do.
I keep the branch warm.
I listen for wings.

Photo by Blake Cheek on Unsplash