My children.
They come home.
How much I love them.
How they drain me. As how it should be.
How they energize me. Always a miracle.
How I can still after all these years vividly see their sweet, cherubic faces in my minds forever imprinted memory.
I inhale these babies, even now, it’s hard to resist.
My hand reaches for the back of their necks, soft, holding up a head that needs me no longer to support it.
I instinctively reach for them, in sleep, in wakefulness, in an insatiable need to nurture these young adult women.
They leave.
Back to a place without me.
I bless them.
Pray for them.
Know I am with them.
Always.
Be safe.
Go.
Come back.
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