Flash in the Pan
A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights
by Risa Nye
When my daughter came home for the summer after her freshman year of college, we went through the typical adjustments that occur when a newly independent young adult re-enters the family: we acknowledged her status as a nocturnal animal, she expressed her dismay at again sharing a bathroom with her two younger brothers, and we sat back and watched as the three kids settled into familiar family routines. We got used to her coming and going at odd hours, and her new hair color.
My daughter and I‘d had our moments during her adolescence. She knew how to push my buttons. But we were able to talk about everything-—boys, drugs, sex—-which helped us through some rough patches. And we always enjoyed doing things together. The hours we spent talking, shopping, or knitting—as we watched "Lonesome Dove" or "Gone with the Wind" for the millionth time—-passed without any major blow-ups.
But when she went away to college, I was suddenly living in the house of boys. I would not have expected my two sons or my husband to sit and knit with me, weeping at the heartbreaking moment when Rhett won't allow them to bury his darling daughter, or when Gus dies and leaves two women behind to grieve. You can't do girl talk with guys, after all.
That first summer passed quickly. I drove my daughter to the airport on Labor Day weekend, 1997. I came inside with her, since back then you could give good-bye hugs at the boarding gate, instead of settling for the hasty farewell at the curb—-under the watchful eye of an airport cop. On that early fall morning, I was excited for her but sad for myself.
A woman sitting across the room from us held a folded newspaper. All we could see was the word DIES in huge typeface.We looked at each other and wondered: Who? My curiosity got the better of me.
"Who died?" I asked the woman.
"You didn't hear?" She unfolded her paper and showed us.
"Oh my god," I said.
"Do you remember the wedding?" I asked my daughter. "You were little, only three-and-a-half years old. I woke you up and turned on the TV so we could watch the Princess get married. I wanted you to see the wedding with me. We whispered and kept the sound low so we wouldn't wake your baby brother. You held up your dolly with the yellow hair so she could see the princess too."
"I remember," she said. "Wow."
And then my almost grown-up daughter-—the little girl I remember cuddling next to on the couch as we watched the beautiful young princess in a long dress and veil arrive in a carriage while the people cheered and shouted-—my daughter, at that moment, almost the same age as Diana was on her wedding day, hitched her backpack over her shoulder and prepared to board the plane. We hugged each other, still a little dazed.
Risa Nye earned her MFA from Saint Mary's College of California. Her articles and essays have been published in a number of publications, as well as in several anthologies She welcomes you to follow her blog at www.zerotosixtyinoneyear.com, and to check out the anthology she co-edited, Writin' on Empty.
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