The Last Suitcase by Holly Day

I watched him float away like a single tuft of dandelion fluff
out of my arms and out of the house and into his own life
and then the door closed and I was alone. There was not one moment
in the past twenty years that I thought about this day
without thinking I’d be filled with relief, and joy, and the feeling
of a job well-done, or at least adequately done—

I was not prepared for the grief, the oppressive constant knot in my heart
the nagging feeling that there was so much I should have done
so many things I should have said
so many missed opportunities to let my son know
how wonderful he made everything for me
how I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now that he’s gone.

*****

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Plainsongs, The Long Islander, and The Nashwaak Review. Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press),  In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), I'm in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.), The Yellow Dot of a Daisy (Alien Buddha Press), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), and  Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing).