Travel Log

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 Travel Log


And then there’s this— my bed,

made, green velvet edges smoothed

and tucked in the corners. Cat food

on the counter. An empty fridge. 

Lights all off. I am away.


Now it’s our small airport

(Why so many people?)

garnished with Portuguese tiles

yellow and rust and teal.


And now, the Cabin murmurs. 

A baby kicking at my seat.

A pop and fizz from A19’s drin.

The loud feeling of twin jets carrying me away.


A mile below, my first born plays with her friend. A mile below, my second born watches them, then climbs something. A mile below, my third born stands tall and strong in a pink sparkle backpack I hate to say she’s grown into.


I never get used to this “away.” 

Even when they are asleep in their beds,

when I can hear them singing, when I hold my foot up to touch theirs, sole to sole, and measure whose is bigger today— 


Even then, being “away”, even by just a millimeter... 


and to think we’ve got so much farther to go. 


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