At four in the morning
I reach for my children.
I remember the weight of them,
the small bones of their shoulders,
the warmth of their faces
pressed against my chest.
How easily they came to me.
Their little hands
finding mine in the dark,
their heads tucked beneath my chin,
trusting my arms
to hold them.
Now I reach,
and there is nothing.
Only the sheet
twisted between my fingers,
the cold pillow.
Somewhere they are waking,
opening curtains,
turning on lights,
speaking to people
who know their voices.
Someone knows
what made them laugh yesterday.
Someone has seen
the years settle on their faces.
I have not.
I wonder when I last held them
if I knew.
Would I have held them longer?
Kissed their hair once more?
Memorised the weight
of their bodies against mine?
I left because I wanted to live.
There was a woman
waiting with the promise of love,
and I followed that promise
into a life
more beautiful
than I had dared imagine.
I thought my children
would understand.
Not then, perhaps.
But someday.
Surely someday.
The years have passed.
They have become ghosts.
So terribly present
in their absence
that sometimes
I almost feel them
standing before me.
And still I wonder
whether they know
what it cost me
to remain alive.
Whether they ever wanted
to understand.
Whether they wanted me
to live at all.
The telephone lies silent.
I close my eyes
and draw them near.
My arms tighten
around nothing.
Air where their bodies
should be.
I hold it anyway.
