Everything about this brief visit
says goodbye: the hot home-cooked meal,
a last long shower before you hit the road.
My offer to blow-dry your long hair—
the bone-deep motherly urge
to keep you from darting out wet
into the night.

Pulling the warm air through the brown tangle
that reaches your shoulders,
I watched you close your eyes and enjoy
my solicitude and the sleepy feeling
induced by someone else combing one's hair.
 
I didn't mention the little flaxen sheaf
saved from your first haircut,
tied with a golden thread and tucked away
in a secret drawer.
Or remembering how it felt to feed you
when my body made your food, both before
and after you were born—how good it was to know
that I could provide everything you needed then.

Though you're well launched now in your own life,
it feels like part of my body is about to be carried away
as, towering above me, you wrap me in your arms
and I smile, trying not to cry
as you say goodbye.

© by Barbara Quick.
Used with the author's permission.