She drifts alone through the house
touching the remnants of boyhood strewn about
wishing his noise was there as well.
For as many times as she had yelled "hush"
and longed just once for the touch
of a father to still
Her boy, twice as many times she now
yearned to hear the joyous, rambunctious row
that was her child.
Even laundry flung to the farthest corners of his room,
long forgotten or ignored once packing had begun
brought her a smile.
Inhaling the scent of her darling, dirty boy,
picking up and holding his favorite stuffed toy
these things are done
By a mother in the midst of despair.
She sheds her tears and wonders "Is it fair
for my son?"
She fears she loves him too much and relies
on his love in turn to fill the places that once cried
"Who am I?"
She wanted a role, something to strive to be;
and gave all her heart to being only "Mommy".
So she tried
And buried it all inside. So her 'self' is lost
and all that is left is love at all costs.
So her 'self' died
Not realizing there would be a time the boy would leave
and live a life of his own. And then she would need
her self again.
Lest she drift through the house alone
wondering why her young son had grown
and left her alone with the pain.