It was the final day of August, 2011. Chris and Laura were proud of how lightly they had packed, but the 1995 Ford Explorer was stuffed. There was scarcely room to toss in dog beds and a pair of small dachshunds to ride along to the kennel. While the two ladies were still in the house, I stood in the garage and looked at the car and thought about this day. When her older sister had left for college four years earlier I first ran the numbers. What had once seemed an infinite number of nights to share with younger daughter Christina had then been whittled down to 1,460. It wasn’t as if I was still reading her a bedtime story or sharing a bedtime prayer each night, but a sad and maybe even urgent feeling came over me when the number of nights started to be countable. It wasn’t long until it was 365 nights and then 30 nights and finally…zero. We were driving Chris off to start her college education at the University of Minnesota–Duluth. Even with the car packed and waiting, Chris didn’t really get out of bed until 9 a.m. I wondered if it was just her late-night summer routine still in effect, or if there was a bit of lingering in the familiar bed of her youth. Maybe she subconsciously cherished another few minutes before a day that would mark growing up. I gave her a hug when I saw her. She was beautiful–her warm smile flickered and her flowing wavy brown hair was pinned up wildly. Chris had grown into a lovely young woman, inside and out, and I noted how she fit perfectly under my arm as I wrapped it around her. There were no tears or regrets in her eyes as we packed the last things and started down the road. Laura and I would be back in two days. It would be a lot longer for Chris.
Lunch turned out to be the most emotional time for me. We drove to Edina in the Minneapolis suburbs to pick up big sister Elizabeth at her new job in a large engineering firm. It had been less than two weeks since she started work, and Laura and I were immensely proud of her. Elizabeth had gone from unemployed college graduate with multiple odd jobs to choosing between two full-time offers with benefits. I had heard other parents talk about the pride they felt when their kids found work after college, but this was an unexpected feeling for me. Elizabeth had only weeks before moved into a downtown apartment and disappeared from daily view. On receiving our text message that the car was full, she agreed to meet us in her work parking lot. When she rounded the corner alone in her car, I couldn’t help but break into a smile. When I opened the car door and saw her sitting there in her business clothes, lovely blond hair, earrings, nail polish, twinkling eyes, I just laughed and gave her a kiss. I suddenly found myself short of words. We drove to a local restaurant and sat down in a booth surrounded by hustle and bustle. Somewhere in the moments while we waited for the meal to be served I felt that feeling when it is suddenly hard to swallow, and I was glad I wasn’t trying to speak. I just looked across the table and saw two beautiful young women smiling and laughing and glowing with joy. I looked to my left and saw the young lady with whom I had once fallen in love, now beautiful and radiant in her own middle age, also laughing. Each of these women had blessed me beyond my wildest dreams or hopes and beyond anything a man could ever deserve. Each had accepted my love at the same time that each taught me how to love.
Each had become the very story of my life.
The emptiness that would be left by losing any of them was unfathomable. I realized that this was the last lunch we’d ever really have as the family we had been for the past 18 years. With those thoughts, though I kept them to myself, the lunch took on a deeply poignant feeling. I almost experienced the time as if I were watching it in a movie. We dropped off Elizabeth at work and I hugged her and watched her walk back into her office. This was meant to be a very emotional trip.
The last dinner with Christina was in a quiet Duluth restaurant. The last evening with her in our hotel was punctuated by constant repeats of the Duluth harbor foghorn. Her last morning with us was spent rolling carts of possessions, then negotiating with a new roommate, then previewing college classroom locations, then connecting technology, then glancing at our watches, then sharing hugs. The tears finally got the better of Laura who had come to realize that her younger daughter had also become her best friend.
Many of the essays in this collection were written about my girls, and all of them were written for my girls. Laura and I now live alone (except for Geordie and Rupert and Kyle the bunny). We cleaned two empty bedrooms and shut off air conditioning vents into spaces where nobody sleeps. Sinks and showers now stay clean. Nobody comes and goes after 11 PM.
I miss our girls terribly already.
I couldn’t be prouder of them. I pray for them constantly. I’m still trying to hold onto them as I let them go. I feel them with me when I hug Laura.
When I look into Laura’s eyes I see them there too.
I’ve anticipated these days for years, with joy, with dread, with pride, with tears, with thanksgiving. Now I know why.
