My brother Adam and his wife, Margaret, rode the Tilt-A-Whirl of emotions last weekend as Rob, a talented young man with a bright future, came home for the Labor Day holiday from Down South and, nearly as quickly as he had arrived, was gone again. We, the Connecticut contingent of the Kenny Klan, don't get down to Jersey as often as we should or could, and appreciated the invitation to join in the 'Welcome Back Briefly' BBQ and story swap, but us momentary Nutmeggers had our own carnival sideshow to handle.
We moved Michelle on campus at college as she begins (I think) her junior year. Our daughter Michelle, so small when she was born that her entire body fit in the crook of my arm with her head in the palm of my hand; our daughter, Michelle, when my mother came to visit us in Germany when she was barely three, never spoke directly to or about her, calling her 'die frau' (the woman) the entire two weeks of the visit relenting only on the last day, a farewell at the Frankfurt Flughafen calling her 'Oma New Jersey' (her own invention as she'd understood this was my mother and that New Jersey was some kind of a place (and boy was she right about that!)); our daughter, Michelle, who can pick up any musical instrument and own it, in terms of ability to play it, faster than I can tell you about it. Yeah, last weekend, we got on that ride and I didn't think I'd ever get off.
I thought, and still think, the best day of my life was meeting the woman I was to marry. Almost thirty-one years later, I have no reason to wonder or reconsider though I'm sure she has done both on a repeated basis and with cause. I was perfectly fine when it was just she and me because we were Happy Together (long live Flo and Eddie!) but with the birth of Patrick and then Michelle, I got to add 'dad' to the resume that had been fortunate enough to be able to list 'Sigrid's husband'.
I got thinking about all of that, again, as we schlepped boxes to the car and then to the dorm room. And I thought a lot about all the late nights, all the scraped knees and elbows, all the broken hearts, all the last minute homework assignments, all the "I need money for the class trip right now' imperatives, all the 'do you have any idea how late it is?' or every parent's favorite (mine used it, and I vowed I never would, but I lied) the no-win question: 'do I look like an idiot to you?'
All the exasperated prayers 'please let them grow up NOW!' have finally come true. How odd that I don't feel any joy from an answered prayer.
The little boy I ran behind for miles on Ahornstrasse, afraid he'd end up in Sprendlinger Landstrasse after losing the battle with balance, as he learned to ride a two-wheeler has his own life and lives in his own house. We talk often and see each other once or more a week, but when the call ends, or the lights disappear, the ache is there and the hurt gets worse as the heart gets harder.
It's harder for my daughter because she became an adult under the same roof, as I watched even when I didn't want to. Three weeks ago, she's putting Samuel Adams beer in the fridge and I'm non-plussed. She's an adult-I know that, I was there when she was born 2 May 1987 and have enough math skills to do the figuring but still.....
Our house is empty, again, as it was when our children's parents first got married, and yet it's a different stillness. Sometimes I can hear the whispers of 'woulda, shoulda, coulda' echo with each footfall as I walk the hallway between the living room and the kitchen. Could have played a little more catch when he asked me to-should have read her a longer story when she wanted one. Force of habit Tuesday as I got up to go to work was to check Mike's room and make sure there were no monsters under her bed only to realize three steps in, Mike was my college girl and elsewhere with her own life and her father was alone with more fears (and tears) than could hide under a box spring.
"We're just ships that pass in the night/We both smile when we say it's alright.
We're still here, it's just we're out of sight. Like those ships that pass in the night."
-bill kenny
No comments:
Post a Comment