*This is a poem I wrote after delivering my only child to college for the first time, making us empty-nesters.*
The sun has absconded with my heart.
I am betrayed.
Prepping the introvert for a world of adulting
created an unintentional bandit, who stole my wind.
Watching her confidently walk away, alone,
salty rain shrivels my skin as clouds move in.
We can’t leave her here, amongst the unknown—
a desert of people, with no one to watch and care.
My eyes bloat as mucus runs like a river.
“Come back!” I yell, as we drive away, stormy-eyed.
Stepping back into home after the sun has gone,
a hurricane spins in my chest at the emptiness.
Will the clouds ever brighten anew in my soul?
Shield, sow, weed, water, prune, and feed that warm child.
Prepare her for an arid cold winter at college.
She sends me texts, and then when I call, talks and smiles.
I am betrayed.
No one told me to prep myself for the tornado of pain.
The worst part of parenthood is letting go.
