Growing Pains

No love is quite like a mother’s,

whole and

powerful and

blazing.

[I scrape my knee, the tears

flood the floor.]

I remember the last time

her hand grazed my cheek,

or the last time her hug

dissolved into

me.

[Burning fever of 102 degrees,

A cold washcloth.]

I wish I knew what getting older meant.

One final forehead kiss,

one last song to be hummed

underneath the moon.

[Sticky grape runs down my throat,

I grimace.

How do you tell a child

in their mother’s arms,

that eventually

the river runs dry?

[A band-aid heals all wounds,]

but maybe not this one.