The Prodigal's Mother

Birth is the only jubilant end

To one life being shared with another.

Not so joyous is the letting go that comes after.

No one told me what kind of empty I would feel in my chest

The first night he did not need me to soothe his cries.

Every lullaby was a prayer for peace

For hope, for restoration 

For dreams of a future.

I held you to my chest and memorized your heartbeat.

I prepared meals as a benediction.

My heart danced to the music of your laughter.

The day you left, I felt the string of my souls tugged tight between us

And I spent weeks humming lullabies.

The story of your father will be told throughout history;

His jubilee at you return,

His fattened calf and celebration.

A father’s love is decided and uproarious,

But a mother...

Her prayers live in the secret place where you grew.

They are in every brush of her broom,

Every smooth of your hair,

Every deep longing she sighed in the night.

I might live forever in the background of your story.

I might not be the one who ran to meet you on the road,

But please know, my love, I knew.

I knew because I heard all of my lullabies come back to me.

I felt your heartbeat in my chest.

Where there was once only empty ache,

I was dancing.