I held his hand and stroked his thick soft hair.
I watched the light casting shadows on the ground from the slats in the empty laundry basket.
Gradually his hand became heavier in mine as he fell into sleep.
In sleep we become parted.
Suspended, frozen, you step outside elsewhere.
In London without my children I felt naked.
My gaze become fixed upon mothers and babies traversing the underground.
Kings Cross haunted me
memories of love, of meeting the father of my first child,
pavements walked together pushing a pram.
I return home.
He is gone.
Its the half term break.
I looked at his bed this morning.
Sheets stay still.
They will remain un-slept.
Is this overly sentimental ?
Its not meant to be, I am trying to express what it is to be apart from my child.
When I do not choose/want to be apart from him.
Is this embarrassing ?
Can I talk of loss when my child is gone ?
Can I talk of missing him and his presence ?
Can I talk of love without idealisation ?
Is this stuck time ?
His face is a place so familiar,
When he is gone from my home,
I am fixed in this state of disorientation,
I lay the dinner table for four not three even when you are not here to eat with me.
The total of our time apart from each other = 240 hours