Lunch

This year, I am making my own lunch.

No brown paper bag stuffed to the curled handle, 

no special treats, mid-day snacks, no toy.

I will not be eating turkey on a fluffy roll, 

nor will I be reading a love note unearthed

near the bottom of the bag. 

I do not even know if she knows 

this is the first day of school. 

I do not know if she'll stop for a minute, 

pause and smile, thinking of me -- 

or her -- how she could create love for us

as easily as the sun turns to rise each day. 

All I know is that I will be thinking of her, 

at 10, when there are no pretzels to eat. 

At 12, as I stand by the microwave

to heat up the pasta I made for myself. 

At 2, just when I am craving some chocolate. 

And now, right now, as I try to type 

and type and type away at the missing. 

I feel like I should take out a brightly colored 

piece of paper and a thin black pen. 

And I should write in that printing she had 

and I have, so straight and true. 

"I love you" -  maybe a wish floating 

backwards to our time, a thank you note to her. 

Or a message for me about myself.  

That I can read, put in my pocket, 

and try to believe when my lunch is hard to swallow.