. 
When our kids grew up and left,
one at a time, with each we
wonder the same things:
what are they eating,
what are they wearing.
How do they spend their nights
without us.
The house more silent with each
departure. When the last one drives away,
all of California grows still.
We still have each other to talk to,
my man likes to say, and then we talk
about the kids, what they might be wearing,
where they might be going.
And he likes to say, Come, let's have dinner.
We can still have dinner.
And so we have dinner and talk
about the old dinners,
what they liked to eat and what not
when we used to have family dinners.
And he also likes to say, Come let's take a walk.
We can still take a stroll.
And so we stroll past a meadow
where kids play soccer,
past a playground
with kids on slides.
The day we clear out the last room,
our son says, Keep the yearbooks,
the trophies, the snowboards.
All that childhood flotsam now
stacked neatly in the dark.
