She’s Leaving Home

Wednesday morning at five o'clock as the day begins….

Her test flights are going well.  Boyfriend, job, school, harp lessons, art projects.  I used to push her to be more “out in the world” as she is naturally inclined to be “inside her world” but now she has hit a steady stride of equanimity - the world has gained a beautiful gem.

Oh world, please be kind to her.

She was born at a time when life as we knew it changed forever. That mid September morning act of terrorism eventually led her oldest brother off to a war.  She was eleven days old when two planes struck the World Trade Centers.  We huddled in the security of our family bed together as we watched the horrors unfold. The world at her feet, now permanently altered.  

I remember having a little crib chat with her on that day - asking her to stay with us, to be strong. We need her softness, her kindness, her gentleness. I worried about the strain on her tender soul. I muttered into her sleeping baby ear “I do hope you will stay” but oddly I also gave her the option to go.

As our fourth child, I was so nervous about having  “pushed our luck”. How was it possible that we were blessed with four healthy children? The more kids we had the more the chances that something bad could happen,  I irrationally rationed. I used to fear walking down our steep steps with her in my arms, I could trip.  I would crawl up on her crib so as not to wake her to be sure i could see the rhythmic gentle rise and lower of the hand crocheted blanket covering her, soothing my unease.

Silently closing her bedroom door

Now a senior in high school, she still lives with us, or at least has her bedroom here.  Her bed is empty when I peak in before I go to bed.  Her bed is empty when I pass by with the vacuum in the morning.  Her curfew is later than my own bedtime, her morning routine is earlier than my waking.   I know there will be a day soon when she won’t be there for me to reach out and hug, stroke her creamy skin and smooth or long hair, it tears at my heart, the knowing of the longing to come that is now wrapped in the longing of what is.

A subtle golden stud occasionally sparkles from her right nostril when the light catches it.  Her first true rebellion, a nose piercing, looks perfect on her.  Her long blonde hair now hennaed a rich auburn seems to be her natural coloring.  She trusts herself, her instincts - she is knowing more and more who she is.  She is expressing herself and it is beautiful.

Between our tears and our heartbreak we witness her soaring. I steal glimpses of her. Her little red car, solid in holding her safely down the mountain roads away from the house into the town. Away from home.

Standing alone at the top of the stairs

She breaks down and cries to her husband "Daddy our baby's gone

She models the dresses given to her as gifts. Her tall thin frame carries them with elegance. 

We stare at her in amazement, how did she become this stunning young woman so suddenly?  When did her braces come off?  She has slipped into a young woman with ease, timelessly.

The family legend is that she saved my dad's life.  Gave him life.  A reason for life.

Heavily pregnant with her in Ireland, I take the call. I huddle into the phone receiver under the ancient stairs of the BnB.  My mother describes the procedure they were wheeling my father's hospital bed into. I smelled the ham being grilled for the guests in the kitchen next to the stairs.   My father on the end of the line, across the sea, the nurses stretching the cord of the phone to reach his ear as he lay on the bed.  I imagine the sterile white, blue/green of the room.  I hear the beeping of the machines, the struggle of his breath.  My last chance to speak with him before the doctors openly explore his heart.  I tell him through gulps of words caught in my dry throat, about  the tiny Irish sweater I saw in a shop window last night. He replied “buy the sweater, I can’t wait to see my new grandchild in it”.  I bought the sweater as soon as the shop opened that morning.  The news finally came, we could expect about five more years with my dad.  That was 18 years ago.  Cardiologists were amazed at his recovery and longevity.  What was it that over ruled their sentencing?  

That little sweater carefully placed with her other baby hood treasures in a cedar chest.  A testament to the power of her spirit and her grandfather's love. He looks forward to her graduation this spring.

Our job is nearly done, 32 years of growing people.  Four children nearly all flown.  Reacquainting ourselves, meals for two.  No need to really set the table any longer.  Even the dinners left in the oven for her aren't eaten.  “I grabbed a bite earlier”.

Sometimes before I go to bed I go into her room and turn on her fairy lights.  Maybe fluff her bed pillows and turn on her space heater.  These little things are all I can do for her.  These tiny expressions of my love.

Logically of course she is leaving.  We are very proud. She's made fantastic grades.  She’s made great choices.  She’s handled herself and situations with grace.  We pat ourselves on our backs for a job well done while inside we ache.

Waiting to keep the appointment she made

Meeting a man from the motor trade

As the years slip by, I long for the mother to child touch. I did not realize it would end so quickly. I miss feeling her thinness, her bird-like body, her girl scent, her thin legs.  My children are held by lovers now. My maternal touch has been replaced by her 6’ tall dark handsome first love.  

Freddie feels my pain.  The ginger has been her best friend and companion his entire life.  As a kitten she would dress him up.  He would slink out of her room with beaded necklaces dragging behind him.  As a cat does he would give us the look of “This is so degrading '' mixed with his utter devotion and love for her.  Every morning she slipped him a small saucer of milk.  Now in her absence we are left to continue this ritual to his loud meows until it is done.  He sleeps on her bed most of his days now.  He sits by the door and stares at it for hours, waiting, patient.  Sometimes I'll sit with him, Fred and I sharing her loss.  Missing our girl.  The tabby is older now, slower, a bit fatter, but his mistress is still his mistress.  “Where is she?” He questions us daily.  “When is she coming home?” 

Quietly turning the backdoor key

Stepping outside she is free

Our already grown and flown kids come by for meals, birthdays, holidays.  A pile of monster sized mens shoes inside the door, respectfully removed, as they were taught for all those years.  In the kitchen their man sized bodies fill the space.  Picking at foods, rummaging through the pantry.  Peeking into the fridge for the craft beers.  Setting the table for six, is one of my greatest joys.  

Friday morning at nine o'clock she is far away

When all four are together they are a force, they are a pod, a clan, links in an invisible unbreakable chain.  They are all very different and they never forget they are the same, they are siblings, bound.  They share the burden of care for each other.  Their wings are strong, their innate spirits lifting them, individually and collectively.  We await their occasional return.

Her room is so empty now. 

Bye bye.
*Beatles: She’s Leaving Home written by Paul McCarthy