One day, I suppose,

while sweeping,

I will look down into the dust pile

and not see

one of the inexhaustible pieces of tiny Lego

that find their way into the bathtub drain,

the carpet pile,

and bedsheets.

One day the cloying voices of cartoon animals

will no longer emanate from the flickering screen

I fret has become a false idol.

and tiny mountains of sand

will not pour from shoes

abandoned by the door.

If ever they are not here.

They are still here.

I should hope the signs of their presence

will linger long

after they have left their mother love

for the love of someone/something/someplace

else.

***

About the Author

Veronica San Chirico Miller

Veronica is a native of Northern California where she lives with her husband and two young sons. She longs for a room of one’s own, even if it’s only a bathroom. While putting her children to bed she crafts poems and essays that she attempts to get written down before they are forgotten. Veronica is also a painter, teacher and psychotherapist.