I sat on her bed for a moment this morning after she zoomed down the street in her little red Fiat, ACDC blaring from the speakers while Crime and Punishment rattled around in her head.
“I don’t want to read crazy people’s thoughts,” she complained to me last night.
“Ah, but…Dostoyevsky…” I replied.
She shook her head and returned to her book.
“You may hate it right now,” I thought, “but you will never forget it.”
Sitting on her bed in the silence this morning, I looked around, just drinking her in because mothering her has been beautiful and deep, a soulful journey, the kind of love story Dostoyevsky only wished he could write…and I never want to forget a moment.
Just above her pillow is a poster of a black and white photo of Paris…a gift from me.
She went to Europe this summer and, of course, fell in love with France. When she called me from Paris, the connection was bad but I could still hear in her voice the truth- part of her heart had slipped away, hidden in the cafes, and museums, the pastry shoppes, and the lavender fields.
Oh, the irony of my mothering. I go to such great lengths to instill dreams of adventure in my children only to see them come true at the expense of my own broken heart.
And here we are already- no longer counting the time she lives under my roof in decades and years, but months, tracking their swift slip through my fingers in college applications, and items on a graduation checklist.
She is leaving, this one who is heart of my heart, and I will never be the same.
“Don’t cry, Mom,” she says to me, “I will come back for you. I am going to take you on adventures!”
Ah…a seed well sown.