Bye, Clara

They are mothers, I'm sure,

these ticket counter agents

who oooh and ahhh at you

as they issue your mother's boarding pass

and weigh the suitcase. 

They say, "Oh, look at her little

socks, like Mary Janes," and

"her necklace, how cute."

When you smile, they forget

about the other passengers

waiting their turns.

Early morning travelers

with stoic, blank expressions

wheel their carry-on bags

through the maze for Passengers Only

and when they see you,

they smile their first smile 

of the morning.

Serious security officials 

attending to ID's and papers
and X-ray scanners

pause for a moment and smile, too,

when you reach the front

of the snaking line.

One checks your mom's ID 

and the other, a dad, I expect,

leans across the desk 

to get closer to you.

I can't hear him from my 

outside the boundary watching place,

but I am guessing that the 

monotone of his official voice 

takes on a fatherly warmth 

as he speaks and waves and 

wiggles his fingers

to get your attention.

And then I can only see the 

back of your mother's head,

newly shorn hair bouncing,

and the straps of your sling

criss-crossing her back,

as she steps to the side of

the metal detector and
another security person

waves a wand over you.  

But you are the one with

the magic, 

turning the faces

of everyone who looks at you 

into smiles,

and making the limbo land

of the airline gate into

the joy spot of the morning

with baby squeals and bright, blue eyes.

There is only one person

who isn't smiling, 

watching you with a tear

and a tight throat as you

disappear beyond the checkpoint.

I expected that.

You have already worked

your magic with me this week, 

letting me hold and feed

and cuddle,
letting me walk in the

garden and show you
a bright green lizard
and yellow roses.  

When you decided that 

Gramma was not a stranger

anymore and reached out your

arms and leaped into mine, 

your acceptance was powerful

beyond words.
I've had my smiles and
baby kisses,
so this fragile feeling
of breaking into tears
at church this morning

the first time someone asks 

about your departure is not

a surprise.

It will pass and

I'll sew for your mommy and

you and hear you
over the phone

and think of you
and imagine the smiles
and scrunch of the nose,
the little sniff
and the wave

and hope, in May,
that you

remember.