The feast was over.
I struggled to my feet,
Feeling strangely satisfied
With how little I had said at the table.
I had watched my children
Represent me, not with my knowledge
But with their own,
Gleaned from their experiences, not mine.
It was comforting to realise
How well they shall cope without me.
I sunk into the armchair,
The leather one by the fire,
I dreamed of knights in armour,
Fighting in a foreign wood.
I awoke to silence in my house;
No warriors here -
Only a mute stillness
Which demanded to be broken.
Slowly, I made my way
Into every room in my heart
And discovered each of them in turn,
Concerned in some important trivia.
They smiled as they were disturbed
And yet still no sound.
As I asked the question,
A soft call from a distant point
Grew louder, gently, gently.
I felt a hand on my shoulder;
I opened my eyes.
You.
It was you.