Leaving

You’d think

All things considered

That by now

I’d be a pro at leaving;

That by now

I’d be able to hitch a smile 

Across my face

A soft gaze toward the horizon

Without the slightest sign of tears.

You’d think

All things considered

That I’d have mastered 

The spastic movements

Of the nomadic life

With its comings

And its goings

Its ebbs

And its flows.

You’d think that the final sight

Of a lazy river

Or a blue hooded mountain

Would fill me with a lucid

Understanding of time

And beauty,

Would leave me breathless

But nonetheless happy;

That getting in my car

Was as easy as eating a banana;

That bidding farewell

To a bunch of old dogs

Would be no more

Tragic than stepping out of the shower;

That music could carry me anywhere,

And the endless cycles 

Of flitting between homes

Would loosen my grip

On this world.

But you’d be wrong.

For there is a truth

I have learned,

A bittersweet knowing

That leaving,

From the day my mother 

Carries me out of the hospital

To the day my body shuts down

And dies,

Leaving will always 

Be the hardest thing I ever have to do. 

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