train from miami home, after sending my second child off

(this is in relation to my children – but the same could be said for my stories, oddly enough).

And what did I think? That this would be easy? I carried them in my body – grew them cell by cell with my own flesh and blood – I birthed them from the most intimate part of me – brought them into life by my own strength and fed them from my breast! Of course the separation, slow and continual from birth, would show itself at last at the end, quite terrible. A fierce rending of flesh, of spirit. It could be little else. They could feel nothing less than the pull of a giant protective she-bear. Yes. Yes. Yes! They should fight, wrestle – o my god it is the same as their birth. Whitney was slow and emotional; Meredith was wait and see and then a sudden “tada!” If this holds true Taylor will be written like a book and Olivia will resist leaving at first.

O glory. I am right where I am to be! I am doing nothing wrong. All is well with the world and right with my home. Growing up never ends and my children teach me at least as much as I teach them.

And now the rain falls outside the train, smearing the window, blurring the future. Fitting.