Space

 In the blink of an eye

you started school.

The tornado friendship bracelet

a reminder that "Mommy loves you."

And you were fine. But,

there was a tiny space left

where you used to be. 

In the blink of an eye

I dropped you off at the doors

of the 100 year old 

giant Middle School

with all those big kids.

You disappeared with my heart

in your hands.

And you were fine.

But there was space left

where you used to be. 

In the blink of an eye,

I left you at the High School. 

You got out of the van,

and walked across the parking lot,

backpack slung high 

and trumpet case in hand.

And you didn't look back.

You were fine. 

But the space you left

was a little bigger.

We got you to college 

and set up your room.

You showed no fear--

But, I had enough for both of us.

It felt like leaving you 

at an orphanage. 

But you were fine.

And at home, the space

you left was enormous.

Each time we picked you up

the space filled back in,

but each drop off 

opened space again.

It's been more than a blink, but

Now you drive yourself away.

Once in your car, 

you don't wave,

you don't look back.

You are fine.

And the space you leave

lingers for a while.

But 

I know

you know the way home,

and I know

you'll be fine.