We begin our goodbyes the night before,
inside The Alphabet Tree, inside branches
hanging words: “foliage”, “gale”, “peace”. The boys
rest inside the curl of us. Inside bedtime,
inside story, a bug with yellow wings
and lush green letters strung together.
On the bed, the baby, his heavy eyes
and full belly, my oldest, his glasses slip
to the tip of his nose. He reads aloud
jagged little sentences, turning pages
as his brother drifts inside a slow blink.
I miss him already. Monday seems far
away for him, for us. This is how we
say goodbye, inside stories, letters,
and green leaves. Beside each other, gathered
in words, the passing of time, and good night.