Eighteen

You're all grown up.

Now you're officially, legally, "grown". An adult. You don't need me anymore. You can do what you want, when you want to, and there's nothing I can do about that.

And that's hard. Because, first, you are and always will be my little girl. My baby daughter, my firstborn. No matter how old you grow. You don't remember my telling you this, but when you were, oh, something like fourteen you asked me when parents stop worrying about their kids and what they do, and I told you the story about Grandma Lawes and how she looked at me when I asked her that. Yep, about ten minutes after they zip us into the bag.

And second, because you will do goofy, stupid, scary, ridiculous things. You'll drive too fast. You'll drink too much. You'll fall for people who will be bad for you, or things that will be bad for you. You'll take dumb risks and fall into harm's way and - hopefully, if I and you are very lucky - you'll wriggle away through some special Providence or good fortune or pure dumbshit luck. And because you're "grown-up" all I'll be able to do is sit and wait and worry and hope.

Just like I did that day all those eighteen years ago.

What? No. Just something in my eye.

But now you're a woman grown. All those long years of diapers and lullabies and hugs and tears and drives to soccer games and quiet mornings and schooldays and hopes and fears have come to this.

Alone? No, no, never. You'll always have us, me and your mother. We'll always love you and care for you and care about you. We'll never leave you, even when you leave us behind.

Yes, lovie. You...what? Yes, leave us. You know you will. You already have. Yes. All those many years ago.

I know, I'm sorry, it's just that sometimes I forget how hard it was. Hard for us all. It wasn't what we wanted, love, was it? We came to that moment, and then instead of going home together you went on and we were left behind to miss you and mourn you.

It's still hard for us.

Because we never got to this day, did we?

We never got to stand here, you and I, with you all strong and young and full of hope and glory. And me, all full of love, proud of you, and hopeful...and nervous worried and scared of losing you to all that goofy, scary, ridiculous stuff. We never got to be father and daughter, never got to live through all those days and years.

You passed through our lives like a shadow fleeing with the sun, to vanish with the coming of night. To...how did I put it all those years ago? "Who ran on the tiny fleet feet that never learned to walk but which carried you swiftly, so swiftly from darkness to darkness."

And once again, I stand here, alone.

Every year. You're here, the hole in my heart.

Then gone again.

Yeah, this has been a long one, hasn't it? Sorry. Well, hey, it's not every day your little girl is a woman. You gotta cut your Da some slack today.

Because after this you'll go again. For another year, another and another and another and all of them, until I join you in that place where you've gone, that bourne from which no traveler returns, that place you have to leave for now. Yes. Now. It's time. Let's say goodbye so you can go. No, you're not too big to hug.

So.

Goodbye, love, Goodbye. I love you. Yes, I'll think about you, my big girl, my own. Goodbye.

I miss you already.

Goodbye.

Bryn Rose Gellar March 1, 2002-March 2, 2002