Perhaps not many of you will understand this, but just so you know it made sense to me. I just came back from driving to New York and back. I dropped B off days early. Sunday. Visited Laura for a minor mental dissolution, and left as unexpectedly and impulsively as I had arrived. I suppose most people would have milked every day they had left with B to the very last drop, but most people didn't have to listen to her sob on the phone saying, "Mommy come get me!" and have her beg me incessantly, "I want Mommy! I want Mommy!" ceaselessly through every waking moment since the day she figured out what was happening.

It wasn't about what would make ME happy. And anyway, listening to her didn't make me the least bit happy. In fact, every "I want Mommy!" was like getting stabbed really hard in the heart. She didn't mean it this way, but it felt like: "I DON'T want YOU!" I began to cry in front of her constantly...it was like tugging off a superglued bandaid in teeny weeny increments. I was desperate to feel the pain and get it over with. I found the fastest solution and executed it coldly and smoothly. I ripped off the bandaid.

But before you think me a coward...like I think myself to be...speed has its flaws. Like her tiny Tinkerbell slippers, pink. sitting on the floor forgotten. Or laughing at 5:30 this morning at a show and slapping a hand over my mouth to quiet myself so I wouldn't wake her...before remembering it was no longer necessary. And those tile and wood floors I am so vainly proud of?

The whole house echoes. It's empty.

Dust coats everything as they continue to work, so occasionally I can make out the print of a small bare foot.

The bandaid is off...but like an amputated limb, I still feel the pain.