I just watched my daughter drive away, heading back to her grandparents' home. She'll be there another 4-5 days and then will leave for Louisville, Kentucky. Five hours thirty minutes. Three hundred fourteen miles. Two interstate highways. Two states. Away.
I want to sink down to the floor and bawl my eyes out. If I were in a movie, I'd have done that. Grabbed a box of tissues, leaned against the front door and slowly and gracefully sllllliiiiipppppped my way down to the floor, pulled my knees up to my chest and began to weep.
After a while I would have blown my nose loudly and let my head roll to the side of my shoulder. I'd close my eyes for just a moment, and take a deep cleansing breath.
I'd open my eyes, and it'd take a moment for them to focus, as my head is still sideways, but I would find myself looking at my bookshelf where -- miraculously -- sit photo albums displaying images of her life.
I'd open the album that caught my eye and I'd see her as a baby.
There'd be a lovely montage with equally lovely music as I peruse the photos. They would end with a fabulous picture of her wedding day, where the photographer caught a special moment exchanged just between the bride and groom, allowing the on-looker a small glimpse of the joy and adventure that await them.
In the movie, I'd close the album and hug it in my arms, tightly to my chest.
And I'd smile.
The music would continue to fade as the scene fades black and credits begin to roll.
But this is no movie.
And my body shape won't allow me a graceful slide to the floor.
And I'll be in my grave for years before I'm able to pull my knees to my chest.
So, what I actually do is stand on the porch with my door open, letting out the airconditioning and watch her drive away as far as I can see her.
I come in, take off my shoes, take a deep breath, tell myself I'll see her on Wednesday--it's her birthday, afterall. I can cry then. I take another deep breath, and refuse to allow myself to crawl into bed with her dad and break down.
Instead, I run into my craft room to record this memory here. Because my baby is leaving. And threehundredfourteenmilesisveryfaraway.
But I am proud of them, for who they are and who they will become. For facing this adventure despite their anxieties. For going forth and LIVING their lives, not watching it out the window or on the television.
Proud of them for not settling for jobs that just make money, but for wanting more out of life. For knowing what they want to become, and working their way to get there.
Good bye for now, Goose. Mommy loves you.
|My babies: Vanessa and George. At cousin Angie's wedding in June 2012.|