They've grown up and moved on. Here's poet Thomas Lux's take on the tempus fugit nature of it all and the ability–or is it need–to let go:
A Little Tooth
Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It's all
over; she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,
your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.
PenPenWrites 
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