I'm going to miss him more than I thought.
 
One doesn't always realize how deeply
our daughters and sons grow into us
            as they grow away from us,
their presence becoming such a natural part
            of our domestic landscape, here and abroad,
that their absence becomes an empty space,
            suspended in the air beside us,
into which our imaginations pour any number
            of fears and hopes, apprehensions and love.
 
Our instinct, of course, is to protect them,
to dip them like Achilles into some magic fire,
            or coat them like Teflon
guarding against all forms of harm
            known and (especially) unknown.
Then, because we have read that old Greek fable
            and are all the smarter for it,
we will spray their heel with the handy aerosol version
            in order to sleep easily every night....
 
Oh, dear. Instead, we have to rely on advice
older than Achilles, advice we can't help but heed,
            advice that is our instinct as well:
Step aside—trust that
            they will find their way through
mistakes, bruises, disappointments, failures and all;
            advice which we—but of course!—can heed,
yet which will also jostle our souls
            in ways we could never have ever imagined.


© by Daniel Budd.
Used here with the author's permission.