Lisa Leaving
Another leaving
so many goodbyes,
waving she vanishes
down a jetway, down a driveway,
on foot, in a car, going away
we part reluctantly, long hugs, a look back
having already planned another meeting
my direction or hers
we seemed to have reversed places
she the mother, I the dependent
are you sure you don’t need a cane
as I walk with her
not minding her arm for support
her first leaving
thousands of miles, twelve months away
young and overburdened
suitcase too large, backpack overstuffed
and violin
no contact permitted
we ate her letters trying to feel her insides
she wrote about riding her bike
radioactive rain from exploding Chernobyl
we hid our concerns
returns cluttered with relief and emotion
less acute than leavings
last time she left in hours of predawn
belongings already stowed
bed stripped and lunch packed for the road
before I awoke
a long hug, my small child for a moment
a wave of hand through the open window, a kiss blown
I track her in my thoughts the stop lights along Fremont
a turn onto the 210
and gone
passing Six Flags
as far as I remember
another hour Bakersfield
I’ve lost her by now
I pick up, put away
inhaling my solitary space
the process always two directional
anticipating arrival and sharing time
then letting go
echoes of leaving reverberate
washing machine complaining about bedding
coffee pot hissing empty
traffic picking up as dawn lightens the sky
just an ordinary day beginning
Karen Whitmore is a fairly recent transplant to South Pasadena from Washington State, where she grew up beneath the shadow of Mt Rainier. She has been writing poetry since childhood, reading and learning from her favorite poets. She studied with Lawson Inada, a past poet laureate of Oregon, and accompanied some of her work with voice or instrument. Most recently, she has been involved in the Pasadena Senior Center Writing Club facilitated by Esther Gillies. She was published previously in Spectrum and the Pasadena Star-News.