It was their first time out of the country,
The mom and her two children
A boy
And A girl
She was on her own
“By choice”, her proud face said,
But the little girl’s wise eyes told a different story,
Of long nights by the phone.
Slippered feet shuffling by windows into the early hours of the morning.
Then a final fed up night, a punctuation mark in the shape of dynamite, which ended the thing,
Only to come through the eyes
of an observant six year old
to anyone who knows to look
for that look.

Children packed.
Snacks packed.
Yellow raincoat on, just in case.
She takes her children to the airport,
Documenting every moment with a fuzzy, old camera
that she asks strangers to document transition moments
with.

The grainy camera,
A trip to London,
And a Mother who obviously loves her children,
Who are curious,
Creative
And wise.

This is my poem to you.
Letting you know,
though you may never know,
that I see beyond your blurry camera,
to a well formed family.
That you will love your trip now and your trips in the future,
And will have memories clear enough that
It wont matter
How fuzzy
the pictures
were.