It is a rift.
A tear,
a palpable shift
in the delicate equilibrium
that keeps us
standing.
She is my tiny raw-hearted owl girl.
She sobbed
and clung to me when I left her
at daycare.
Still,
I am haunted by her grief.
Mine. Ours.
We parents have all known the agony
of peeling those tiny fragile fingers off
of our bodies
still warm
from the rushed desperate clutching.
This is the same
tender,
terrible truth.
