My shattered heart longs
to comfort
Cara and Christopher,
sit them down
explain all the leaving
so they
can hurt less
but I don’t understand it
myself
and can’t seem to stop
feeling so helpless.
One clear Saturday afternoon
Mom is off Jazzercising;
eleven-year-old Cara
lies on her bed, light
streaming through her window.
I walk in and quietly say, “Hey.”
She turns, pleading with
shipwreck-eyes. I
run to give her a hug attack,
and we both start crying.
Soon Chris drifts by
in Spider-Man pajamas
nothing needs to be said,
we shift on the bed.
Make room for him
in our life raft embrace.
The sunbeam’s fingers
stroke our hair, Strawberry Shortcake
watches from Cara’s pillowcase,
and we stay
sobbing bobbing
sobbing bobbing
for a long time.
But it isn’t enough
we are
lost.