A collection of people
waited in a room.
Each one had a plane ticket
and they would all leave
to different destinations
by morning.
The first to go were the old;
they marched out with waves and
kisses, fearing
nothing except maybe
a bit of turbulence on the flight.
The next to go were the young men and women;
they flung themselves out the door
propelled by the inevitability
of their departure
to leave with a profound abruptness.
The next to go were the mothers and fathers;
their lives long consumed with children
they decided to take what was theirs,
detach themselves from the nest,
and so they walked in a self-assured line
neatly out the door.
The last to go were the children;
they sat, talking among themselves about
what may or may not lie ahead,
crying and kissing and exchanging
endless goodbyes.
One by one, they began to feel
that there was nothing left to say
and drift out the door,
still wiping their eyes.
When there was only one child left
she looked around with brown eyes
and screamed once at the walls.
There were no goodbyes to be said;
there was no one to contemplate
her leaving.
With a quiet sigh,
she pushed herself through the door
eyes still wet
and shut it carefully behind her.