It’s a hard loneliness that stems from failing
To do well by someone else, someone loved.
It’s not the soft solitude of a contented hour
In a quiet chair in the mild, spring sun. It is
The ache, almost like lost love itself, of not
Being with that person one could help. My child
Is far away from me this afternoon, this week,
The better part of this month, and it’s my fault,
And I know that she is suffering for it, not just
The lack of my companionship, although we like
Each other’s company, but also my protection
From the riptides of other caregivers’ emotions,
From bullying children, from her own being alone.
This is sentimental parent stuff, and thus
Not to be trusted, not even by myself. So what.
If I were there or if my child were here, life,
Which is cruel on purpose, would not be perfect,
Let’s not romanticize this, but it would involve
Her shedding fewer tears, holding fewer fears.
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