Not Enough Time Never Enough Time

I can't help it: Every day gone is one day less, and this summer the weight of that math is heavier than it has ever been, and far more burdensome. A month from now my son will be off to a college that is tailor-made for him—best program in his field, best chance to learn and dream. He'll be off and I'll be here, not hearing the door slam open and shut, not waiting for him at dinner time, not seeing him slide into my office, not hearing his, "Mom? Got a question." I hardly ever had answers, but he'd ask me anyway; he'd make me feel as if there was some greater difference I could make, something I knew that actually mattered. My son is there in every book I write, in every poem. I see the world the way I do because he is who he is—a profoundly deep thinker, a sly wit, an artist in the making. Because he leaves his mark. Because words change shape when he is talking.

Everything will echo when he's gone. I will sit down to write and wonder what my true purpose is.