Leaving

It seems I'm always leaving or they are leaving—I hate it.

I want to live in the same city as my children and their children.

I do not want to leave.

I do not want to go home to an empty house that is silent and

that can sometimes be very lonely.

I know that it will only take a couple of days to adjust, to once again

get used to the silence. To get back into a routine where I will no longer

notice that I am alone. I will go on with my days,

taking up time with errands and other mundane things.

Fortunately, I am forever the optimist so I will tell myself that all is well.

I will look to the future and begin to plan the next trip

—for them or for me. I will begin to tell myself little lies

to fill in for the truths.

Lies that say--the time will go by quickly—when in reality it won't.

Or that the quality of the visits are better than the quantity—

when it is not necessarily so.

I tell myself so many little lies. Lies to get by. Lies to ease the heartache.

Lies to help. Lies of protection.

To help me not to cry too much, or to miss them too much,

or to want to be a part of their everyday lives.

You see, I didn't know. I didn't know that they would grow up and leave.

That they would leave me like I have to leave them.

I didn't know.