It happens, as they say, when you least expect it.
This morning, as I was draining the last of the cereal from box to bowl, it came on and shook me to my core. They're gone.
They packed up and left, one by one, and it seemed as natural as breakfast at the time.
They should be here, in this cold dark kitchen, fighting over the empty canister oatmeal box - Matt grabbing it to pound like a drum, mimicing an Indian warpath dance. Kate snatching it, planning to use it for her ribbons, to cover it with construction paper and decorate it with stars. Joe should be in the highchair, generally amused, giggling and screaming for more raisins.
It's twenty degrees on the third day of Spring and, almost as unexplainable, is that they are far from this place - foregoing breakfast, no doubt; rushing to work, living their lives.