When I look down the road

reality of raising children with divorced parents

When I look down the road of the years yet to come,
And I think of the family we’ll start,
I imagine the kitchen, the toys on the floor,
And the pieces that make up a heart.
But a shadow falls over the picture I paint,
A reality heavy and true:
My children won't visit a "Grandma and Grandpa,"
The way that I once used to do.
They won't see a couple who sits on the porch,
Holding hands at the end of the day,
Or pack up their bags for a weekend built up
Of a pair chasing shadows away.
Instead, they will go just to Grandma’s front door,
Or to Grandpa’s, where quiet things rest,
Learning early that love can be scattered in parts,
Even when those who love do their best.
It will be Grandpa's house with his own separate life,
Or Grandma's, with different rules made,
Two different worlds where my children must walk,
Where the collective "grandparents" fade.
I will teach them to love every piece of the tree,
Though the roots have been pulled right apart,
And ensure that they know, though it's separate roofs,
They are held in the depth of each heart.