Sorry for the feelings.

A pretty lunch on a Sunday
"What time are you leaving on Wednesday?"
Mom asks my baby then my
Fork stops
Kick in the gut
Throat blocked.
I stop eating,
I can't take it in.
"Maybe", my body offers,
"If I stop functioning, time will stop
to let me catch up"
And you won't have to leave me anymore.
Simple question, but the room around me shakes,
threatening to spill tears I've been securing,
"What time are you leaving on Wednesday?"
A pretty lunch on a Sunday
But my tears are too close to the brim
There's no room to swallow anything.