We wake up and it's like any other day... almost. 

11 putters around making herself some breakfast while I stumble through the motions of making my coffee.  Like a normal morning, only she has to ask where the bowls are, if there are any clean spoons, and if I have napkins.  The child who gets by on pure rote repetitive routine doesn't instinctively know where things are here. 

13 clomps in sleepily and collapses into a folding chair at the table.  Like any other day he grunts and flops around a bit until he's been fortified with granola and applesauce and OJ.  Except that he too asks where, what, how much.  I too, am still asking why, where, what... and how much more.
 
We sit at the table, the three of us, equal parts a little normal and a little off balance and we all work to make it something more even, more leveled, more balanced.  It's mostly all good.  13 teases 11, 11 has a domesticated moment and wants to hand wash dishes, I check my bank balances on-line, and music plays in the background.  But still...

We sit in folding chairs, not the lush fabric and hardwood dining chairs we used to.  This dining table sways precariously with every heavy awkward movement by 13 unlike the sturdy solidness of the table I left behind.  This kitchen has one window and although the light filtering in is cheerful the view is not of big shade trees, flowering rhododendrons, and the wide expanse of grass and land but of a chain link fence, the tired mulit-family homes stretching out on the worn street, a few sparse uncared for trees dotting the landscape.  A new version of reality - and they will see it first through my eyes, and then add their own visions.

I try hard to show them "normal" and "balanced" and "just the same" but the quivering smile and teary eyes don't escape them. Their own vision is tinted by His new flat panel television, His new mattress and bedding, the new drapery and unique finial-ended iron rods in His kitchen, 11's new mp3 so tiny and pink, and the random bits and peices of furniture suddenly appearing in the garage.  Used before maybe, but not purchased from necessity like the lamp I put in my living room that I took off of someone's freebie yard sale leftovers.  My vision too is tinted - colored by sadness, grief, loss, and the hopelessness of the future.  Colored by anger and fear and rejection.  It is by the grace of God I am able to hold my tongue.  They will see what they will see.

I offer them an early return home when I realize I am empty in the pocket and have worn out all options for entertaining without TV, Electronic gaming systems, ingredients for creations in the kitchen, and the fridge holds only the most essential of food products inspite of the generosity of others.  11 chooses to stay, as does 13, and I am warmed to the center of my heart, relief melting into the marrow of my bones until 11 calls Him to say hello and in one thoughtless breath tells Him she is coming home.

When the sound of my heart, breaking free from it's last hold on life, shatters my own spirit, I find that the Mother in me is still able to tell her that it's ok, I understand, it's boring at my house right now, she misses her kitty, her own room, her privacy, the computer and her own stereo, her friends, her big backyard and swingset... and the new flatpanel TV.  I hug her, and kiss her freckles, and wait until later to cry.  13 is adamant about staying with me, about getting some movies and books from home and then coming back with me to my apartment.  I know it's from pity, from the compassionate, empathetic heart that resides under his unruly elbows and unpredictable feet, but I take it.  I take his willingness to come with me and I hold on to it with everything I have and it isn't until 13 is sound asleep in his bed in his room in my apartment that I let some of my grief out. 

Under cover of the noisy hum of the window fans, the even purr of the rotating upright fan, and the low thump of bass from the stereo, my grief leaves new marks on freshly laundered pillow cases, the ones that no longer even hold the scent of 11's shampoo or soap.  I am immeasurably off balance.

While I weep for 11, for the agony of wanting her without being able to tell her quite so bluntly, for the shame of using 13's pity for my own heart, I weep too for 19.  My firstborn, the 4th leg of my squared foundation, my mini-me, my friend - she has flown the coop finally.  My chick-chick-chickadee left on an airplane yesterday morning, to live in WA and live her life there, 3000 miles away.  She left, and it is as it should be I suppose, but the timing of it all is just so wrong - and I hate it. 

I'm no longer balanced... I'm missing too many parts and it's getting harder and harder to function, and harder to even justify trying.