There was a car, a Buick probably, parked in a meadow. The windows fogged up. Her face more of a shadow, or a faint reflection. A wave. Goodbye. You will never have a chance again to say all those things. I'm sorry. I love you.
Don't say it's all right, she knew.
She didn't. She wouldn't.
A life filled with regret. Getting to be the age she never was. Dreams like skin. Everythng comes back to that day, those days, when you had the chance but blew it. It has made my mothering more intense, my expectations extreme, my disappointments too harsh--my poor girls.
So here, too, is a parallel crossroads. Passage. As they leave me to have their own lives, as they should, as I want them to, I feel grief as my motherhood becomes a memory, an apparition I hang onto desperately. Let go. Let them fly. Do not hang onto their ankles, like a greedy death grip.
You fly, too.