They Run To Someone Else Poem by Jenny Kalahar

Some afternoon I could wander to sit on my front step
Elbows on knees in the sun, grainy cement under me
To watch them in the park, on swing sets, or running
Playing with each other or with parents

These not-my children would be toted home or wander home
To eat their suppers
To do their homework or not
Chatter and laugh, or sit quietly to read

Night would come
Stars would brighten
Clouds drift above
And not-my children would be marched off to beds
Their freshly-washed faces kissed in dim light
Dreams would circle as I still sat, still thinking of them

I could yet be sitting there
When the night's dampness laid its hands upon me
Listening to distant traffic, distant stars creak across the sky.
I could be there still
While the morning sun crept through cracks between houses
Where not-my children would be woken
Or where they wake their parents

Not-my dogs would leap and bark
Tug at their children's pajamas.
Water would run, TV's would blare
Hair would be combed.
Then not-my children would leave for school
And I could watch them from my step, soaked with dew
As they wait for the bus
Shove, tease and argue
Untucking shirts and messing up their hair again

I could sit, elbows on knees, silently through a long day
Until not-my children filter back through the neighborhood
Sit on swings or under trees
Linking arms for secrets in the playhouse.
And some may notice me still on my step (was she there all day?)
But most are just busy being not-my children
As best they can
As they all do

But, really, I do not sit on that step and watch them at all
I do my thing
Day in
Day out
Night comes and I part my hand-sewn curtains to the stars and slim moon
Ignoring soft yellow lights on in the homes around me
Don't think of the nursery-rhyme cow jumping over that moon
Dish and spoon
Cat and fiddle

Though it's okay today.
I feel melancholy
But okay
I have work to do and will probably let some silence come
I can handle the thoughts that quiet will bring
There are things to look forward to, after all

But, I'm startled when those realizations come …

She would have been ten years old now
That little girl, ours.
Would have been so prevalent, here, in our lives
But she is gone, was never really here
Was barely even real,
Was barely even five days old
Our girl

He would be four years old, our boy.
Would have been running around and pushing trucks and kissing us
His sister would be walking him, holding his chubby hand in hers
And we would be a family
Our family

So now
When children run across our path
They don't call to us, or reach
They run to someone else
And it's our loss
Our loss year after
Year after year