It is our last evening together, she and I. She is off to new adventures while I am left behind to do my thing. It has been a week of swirling activity, which has been helpful as I try not to think in terms of hours… minutes… seconds. We have parted before, of course, but this is different. She is a grown woman; our relationship has shifted. She will never be home again for good. We both know this, but how do you put it into words?
“Thanks for the memories, kid.”
“See ya, Ma.”
Luckily, this evening I get to do my mom thing once again: smooth tears from her cheeks, tell her how fabulous she is, how great she will be at this job, how proud I am of her. I would say all these things anyway because I am a mom, but they are all true in her case. She is going to rock this world.
With the sadness and soothing over, we fall into our familiar pattern, curl up in her twin bed, heads pressed together. She gets out her phone.
“Want to watch fail videos?”
“Yes! Of course.”
We watch grown men making fools of themselves with snowmobiles, fireworks, too much beer, jumping off high things into small things… which never works; we could tell them that. Small dogs in spider costumes create havoc on late-night streets. Our favorites are bathing beauties posing provocatively at water's edge only to be overtaken by sneaker waves. Gasping and sputtering, hair in their eyes, they go from sexy to sodden in an instant. Truly satisfying.
I have no idea why we have reverted to this, our rather dark sense of humor at other's expense, in our last hour together. We could talk of God or life dreams or old memories or whatever is deep in our hearts, but here we are snorting snot bubbles over the brand new drone being flown into the top of a 50-foot tree on its maiden flight. The cries of woe that follow send us into hysterics. It is close to midnight, and she has promised to get breakfast with her father at 6:30 a.m. I know this, but find myself saying over and over,
“Just one more?”
“Yes! Of course.”