Time Lapse

I have to wake you every three hours to nurse
or you would sleep right on through the day.
You fall asleep after school and I rouse you for dinner,
then you linger doing homework online after midnight.

I can’t play right now, you call across the street to Adam after pre-k,
I have to take a nap.
Sucking on your fingers, rubbing the fringe of your blanket
in the booster seat on the way to swim class,

Worrying long strands of your hair, checking your notes,
waiting for your college interview to start.
Patiently I explain to the doctors which small spaces of time each day
they’ll catch you moving on the fetal monitor.

Tomorrow I knocked on your door and called Time for school, or
Dinner, or maybe even Phone.
But there was no answer, and when I opened it the room was empty,
pillows arranged with precision, and you were gone.