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I just spoke to my sons Elliot and Ben, respectively two and three hours away. I am excited for their futures, but part of my heart is missing. The pieces gone are with them and my daughters out of this home. Time passing is a difficult page to see turn, though it turns with a simple breeze, without my effort. If a page is splattered with spilled milk, the spill of mistakes I have made, I still do not want to see the words disappear as the page corner is lifted and pulled to the left revealing new words. The new may read of great happiness, but my desire disobeys all laws of physics. I wish to see all the words from prior chapters live together on the same page with the new.
