Vacated Blood

One by one
As the children leave
We linger over their faces on the wall
And empty rooms that paint pictures
Of their energy and noise
Parties and locked doors
Struggles and freedom.
The youngest turns 16
And moves downstairs
Not away from us
But for us
A gift
A merciful halfway step
So it becomes familiar
Easing into emptiness.
I call my dead
Understanding where his heart hurts
Fill him up with a strong dose of me
Hoping the world will return the favor
That one day
My vacated blood
Will dial me with news of the day, too.

© Poem Fix 2012
Image: Poem Fix 

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