It’s been over a month since with one ticket round-trip and and the other one-way I got on a plane with her and we flew to Florida. We shopped and we ate ice cream. We bought toilet paper and sponges for her first apartment. And then I stood outside on a curb and while I squeezed her I opened my eyes to memorize every color of that most impossible goodbye.
I went back to the hotel alone and I let the phone go unanswered in favor of sobbing until my eyes swelled and throbbed. My mom texted: You okay? I answered: I will be. And then I woke up in the middle of the night with what I now know were hives. Worry manifested.
A friend came by today and she said to me I’ve been thinking about you. Her kids are at camp and she misses them and so she thought of me and my most impossible goodbye.
It really was impossible.
But there she is and here I am and this is where we are and it’s surprisingly fine.
On her first day of preschool, there was a little blonde boy with curls who cried and clung to his mom–wouldn’t let her go. Mine, meanwhile, shrugged and waved a shy goodbye. Roots and wings, I told myself as I got in the car that day and drove home to play the waiting game.
I still tell myself. Roots and wings. And prayer.
and maybe also a little pink can of key-chain pepper spray tucked safely in her purse.