My daughter and grand-daughter left for home today after a week's visit. We had a wonderful time, and it was hard to say goodbye. This is what I want to say to them.
I can say a long goodbye from my small piece of the mountain.
Because I know just where to look, I see the metallic flash of the rental car.
They are traveling a twisting rock-dirt road, beautiful but unforgiving. No safety barriers, and no second chance for careless mistakes.
I see another flash, and now I know your mom, my daughter, has taken you safely through the switchbacks. Now I see you again, just a little red dot, headed down the highway.
I watch for the dim, small flash of taillights, and there they are. That little flash of red tells me that your dear mother, my little daredevil of many years, now wise and cautious with this precious child, decided to slow down just a little for the sharp turn at Battleship rock. Good girl, I say to myself. I am slow to know at my heart’s deepest level that my little girl is a grown woman, with a miracle of her own, strapped tightly in a little car seat.
We have said goodbye many times, my lovely, strong and independent daughter. We have our little rituals, no dragging out the inevitable. You cannot know that I hurried to just the right spot, that I shielded my eyes against the sunrise, settling for the smallest glance, the weakest clue that all went well.
The better part of me does not want to hold you here. I will not hem you in behind my safety barriers. There will be nothing between you and the mountain. And you have made me so proud. My lovely, strong and independent girl.
I can say a long goodbye from my small piece of the mountain.
Because I know just where to look, I see the metallic flash of the rental car.
They are traveling a twisting rock-dirt road, beautiful but unforgiving. No safety barriers, and no second chance for careless mistakes.
I see another flash, and now I know your mom, my daughter, has taken you safely through the switchbacks. Now I see you again, just a little red dot, headed down the highway.
I watch for the dim, small flash of taillights, and there they are. That little flash of red tells me that your dear mother, my little daredevil of many years, now wise and cautious with this precious child, decided to slow down just a little for the sharp turn at Battleship rock. Good girl, I say to myself. I am slow to know at my heart’s deepest level that my little girl is a grown woman, with a miracle of her own, strapped tightly in a little car seat.
We have said goodbye many times, my lovely, strong and independent daughter. We have our little rituals, no dragging out the inevitable. You cannot know that I hurried to just the right spot, that I shielded my eyes against the sunrise, settling for the smallest glance, the weakest clue that all went well.
The better part of me does not want to hold you here. I will not hem you in behind my safety barriers. There will be nothing between you and the mountain. And you have made me so proud. My lovely, strong and independent girl.
