Panic.

What will I miss the most when you’re gone?
The clamouring need for a shirt ironed now
Or the dinner that’s wrong and inedible somehow.

What will I feel first when you aren’t here?
A drowning panic with nowhere to go
and a terror so base that it’s lower than low.

What will I do while the hours pass slow?
The ticking and tocking that eats at my soul
And a chasm in bed that exacts a hard toll.

Who am I to complain or to fret?
I’m just a mother
A woman
A pet.

A Rock
A hard place,
I’m a mother that’s true
Who will fight and protect and kill.

That’s who.