Holding

She worries that now that they are gone, the world will crumble. Everything falling apart. Bit by bit. One by one. Each child tumbling into the abyss. What she doesn't realize is that this is a necessity. It has to happen. What has come before no longer holds. A new order is being created.  It is time to learn the art of selfishness. Or at least a variation on it. An old voice remembers. She swoons. Oh, my darling! Who will take care of you? They taught us only one thing and we learned it well. Only one focus. One intention. Don't look at the edges of your life. There is only one life. But now they are gone. We are left with rags. Not riches. The empty spaces point to a center. Can it be undone? Rebuilt? We approach as children. Will we always be children? Will this always seem like someone else's life? Can we be undone? Unfinished? Lurching into spaces that hold our names.  Calling us to return. To serve the center with the obvious holes once more? What did they take with them? What did they leave?

It will never be done. We will always be children. Waiting. Hoping.   Each one. All. Trying to form a new whole. Unable to reach across to meet the other.  Arms flailing. Hold me. Hold me. Will you take care of me? Will I take care of you?

We know. We nod. We hold. And then we hope that this is the first step, not the last.