Journal Entry from 1-16-05

On a quiet, snowy Sunday ride I heard four small words that began to finalize in my heart and soul that indeed, my apron strings were hanging by a thread.

"I'm going to go," she said softly but with much conviction.

We were in her bug and the "Garden State" soundtrack was playing in the background. The song was by Colin Hay entitled, "I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You." I had to turn the music down and ask her what she said, although I had heard loud and clear.

And so she said it again, "I'm going to go to California."

When she was little, she used to say to me, with her tiny arms wrapped around my legs, "Hold you?"-- "Hold you?" I guess she substituted "you" for "me" because I always said to her, "want me to hold you?"

And now she was asking me to let her go.

The tears instantly welled up and waited patiently to hear the rest of her reasoning, which actually caught me off guard.

"Don't you want me to go?" she asked without looking over at me.

Yes--hell no! I wanted to scream. What I really wanted, right about now, was to time travel. If I could, I'd turn back the clock and enjoy the heck out of every day I've been privileged to have her call me mom.

"Yes, sweetie, of course I want you to go. It will be the experience of a lifetime for you," I heard myself saying. But it was muffled and weak.

Why didn't somebody tell me how hard this was going to be? I want to be able to reach out and touch, hug, and squeeze her hand at my choosing. Cell phones, e-mail, and text messages cannot speak to my heart like the sensation of touch. People can live without all the other senses--but babies actually shrivel up and die with out someone holding them.

She was rambling on then about finding a diverse church with a kick ass gospel choir (her words exactly), meeting new people, and what she was thinking of singing for the fundraiser. She jumped from subject to subject...something about remaining just friends and how her and Meghan had all but one class together to finish out their last semester. I didn't hear it all. I was too busy trying to turn off the tsunami and shut down the damn flood gates.

Big Michigan silent snow flakes had started to fall as this unwanted, yet inevitable, defining moment swept over me. I know for certain I will never forget that short ride to church on such a cold January morning.

It's time to start letting go--It's her time.

I will always "hold you," even if it's only in my heart.