by B. V. Dahlen ©

The tidings have arrived.
Dreaded, expected,
they fall on my heart.
You're going
again so far,
and we must wait.
Your son won't know you
when you return.
His memory is short.
He'll learn to walk
and you won't be there
to hold his hand
and guide his explorations.
This bed will be arid
when you're not here.
I'll have to learn
to dream alone.
I'll hang a calendar
on my wall,
and mark the days
until you're back with us.
One desperate slash
for each lonely day
we spend without you.