PAINFUL DISTANCE

There you are
three little blonde
rabble rousers.
Diagonally two thousand
five hundred and forty miles away.

My heart breaks with love for you.
I imagine your days of running,
happy, blueberry covered mouths,
unaware of childhood’s passing.

You can’t “come over”
or be dropped off to
spend the night, jump on the bed
and eat junk food...
(no homemade cookies from this grand.)

I watch you grow in magical spurts
at six month intervals.
I gasp at your changing bodies and minds.
We play, make messes,
draw and go to the park.

You three,
Papa Eddie and Jana B.
We’ll be together soon
and pretend to fly to the moon.