I am perched at the kitchen counter
trying to focus sleep encrusted eyes,
on the flickering light pulsing from
my computer screen as it attacks
the pitch black of night.
Motherhood, long obsolete, directs
sleep deprived fingers to the portals
of Facebook searching for news
gossip, spirited posts.
My children appear in the still night air, 
short videos, greetings, updates. 
How short sighted I was
not to have foreseen these 
keyboard relationships,
prepared for the death of
conversation, 
an in your face argument.
To have braced myself
for the fading memory of
a farewell wave accompanied by
the promise of "we’ll talk".

© by Anita Pulier.
Used with the author’s permission.