Mother Hunger

My hunger is sated. The lean hunger of a mother who doesn’t see her children for months and months and months on end, who knows that the swim of a face into a screen is never, ever going to be the same as the holding of that face between the palms of my hands, the rest of that head against my shoulder, my arms raised to encircle the necks of the young people who are far taller than I.

Mother Hunger.