Catching Plane

Checked baggage.
Shoes in tub.
Gate found.
Time to spare.

We roam the airport.
I reach for your hand,
as if you are still three.
You pull away and grimace.
After all, you’re 11 years and 12 days.

I choose People magazine over Us,
Reese’s over Snickers,
glance at you,
looking at caps.

When was it, exactly
that I put you down
out of my arms
for the very last time?

“People with children…”
they call.
We board.
Baggage stowed.
Seat belts clicked.
Electronics off.

You place your head against me;
asleep before we depart.

Note to self: Remember this; it could be a last time kind of moment.

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