A large duffel bag hung awkwardly askew across my chest, my messenger bag hung opposite.
In tow was the rest of my belongings in a wheeled suitcase.

Leaving failures behind me
I entered the airport's departures hall.

In a row of seats against the tall glass windows near my airline's check-in desk sat an aging woman.
Paper birds trapped in silent flight hung overhead.
Her hair was now peppered,
her features were now heavy with loss.

She had travelled several hours by bus and train to say goodbye,
    again.

A few awkward words were exchanged as I removed my bags,
    and we hugged.
Fear, loathing, longing and love welled up.
This moment lived in dreams and nightmares a decade old.

She tried to apologize to the boy I once was,
but for everything that wouldn't matter to a nine year old boy.
She didn't apologize for leaving.

I absolved my mother without giving her forgiveness, explaining
I would not be the person I was in that moment if it was not for the life that lead me to it,
and I realized I liked who I was in that moment.

This is the first time that I've written down an idea and let it evolve over several drafts. I finished this draft yesterday after trying to explain what I like in poetry. I wrote:

My aesthetic for poetry is distinct, subjective, and personal. I usually prefer free verse. I appreciate grand ideas presented with simple language (but there are exceptions). And I am fond of emotionally charged imagery. I don't regard my opinion as being definitive of any widely held aesthetic but just that, an opinion. Which is all to say I know what I like and its very possibly not whats popular.