Missing the child

It’s the little things. Her socks, mismatched, left by the bed. The stick of deodorant sitting on the desk. The fish tank she wants me to mind. (I mind it, but don’t mind, really.)

Her leaving was an exciting event for both of us: for her an adventure, for me an inevitable rite of passage. But after her departure, well, that’s when I began to notice those things and their missing owner: the socks, the deodorant, the handbag I thought she’d taken with her. (“Honey, do you want me to sent that?”)

I try to imagine her place, her life, her elsewhere. Amsterdam is a wonderful place to be. But “back home” misses her.