Leavings I am tired is it of leavings? Daughters have come from each coast to choose book titles, record labels, deciding which to take to a Seattle home or a Staten Island; another daughter reaches for the plants I cannot carry with me. The grandchild reaches for me when she is sad as I pack my trunk to leave. Fifty years is a long time to live in a Midwest space, seasons marked carefully by sun and rain and snow; there are no friends to call when I reach Denver, and oh! how I need friends to call; there will be no classes to teach and oh! I love to teach. The waves along the lake beckon, and I giggle through tears sometimes when I tell the 15-year-old, "I'll call every night." My chin, thrust forward, may belie the pain, my smile, shaking, may hide the fear, for I know I need to go. Scared, for it is scary, to believe God will take care of me in that new place; scared, but leaving. Chicago, IL, 1975 JOURNEY Hope Publishing House www.hope-pub.com