That was the standard.
She doesn’t even realize it, yet
there she goes, creating, destroying, changing my world.
It is meant to be my world.
Though, she is a piece of that world,
more vital than she can see, and
more precious than I will tell.
Or, maybe, it isn’t my world.
Maybe it’s our world.
It has grown for years from a mere
seedling, and when it is finally comfortable enough to burst open and stretch for the sun,
it is snipped.
We are now in merely two pieces, not scattered about the earth shaken with
insecurity, but separated still.
Walking away triumphantly, she knows her job is not finished; neither is mine.
I trust that we will both finish someday.