No one to wipe your nose
when it's running down your lip.
That salty taste of infection
is now your reminder, that she's not there.
You're all grown up now-
and you worry about taking care of her,
now that she can't take care of you.
Wishing, just wishing you could go back.
Back to the days when she brought you soup,
warm and steaming, with crackers and juice.
The hands that tucked you in and wiped your tears
are three thousand miles away
and need some help, getting through the week.
Please let me return, for a moment
to that warm pillow and bowl of soup
before the roles reverse and I can no longer
be the little girl.