River got in the car and reversed out of the driveway with swollen, red eyes. She waved goodbye and backed out in Carol, the smoke-filled Toyota handed down to her by her sister Ayla. “I love you so much, Mum.” And off she went.
I stood there for a while and looked at Jasper. We hugged. I said, “Let’s look after each other,” and walked inside.
She had spent the whole day packing and didn’t arrive until after I’d finished my own meal. I served her dinner, and we sat down together.
Emotions running wild, she thanked me for everything I’ve done for her. She told me she’d never replace me with anyone else. Big, dark pupils staring at me. I could feel a little tear rolling down, but also something trying to hold on, not allowing the big wave of emotion to flow. My emotions seem to come on a delay. I think it’s years of practice feeling uncomfortable to express real vulnerability in front of people. I don’t allow myself to feel until after the event is done, the person has left; my child, my second child, has flown the nest.
I packed the dishwasher, turned it on, went upstairs, and put myself to bed, only to wake at 3am, bolting upright, and find myself bawling. I fell back to sleep and woke again at 6, and felt this wave of grief. My whole body felt like cement. Where did this come from? Oh yeah. This is the delayed response.
River’s gone. She’s left home, and in this big house, I stay with one child, a teenage boy. Just me and him and all this stuff. I went to open her door this morning and stopped. I’m not ready yet.
As she drove off, overcome by all the different emotions moving through her, guilt at leaving her parents, sadness, fear, she reminded herself out loud: “I have to remember that I’m not dying. I’m still here.” And yeah, that’s true. She is still here. She’s just gone to Melbourne.
Why does this feel so huge? I asked myself. And those parts of me that don’t allow vulnerability say, “Hey, she’s only gone to Melbourne, get a grip.” But something inside feels like it’s saying goodbye. Letting go.
Can I let it be huge? Can I stay here, in the cement and the 3 am tears, without rushing to make it smaller than it is? This is what vulnerability asks of me: to feel it fully, with or without delay.
The seasons keep turning. This is the end of one, yes butt endings are also thresholds. Maybe what’s beginning is not distance but a different closeness, a new relationship growing between us, mother and daughter, across the miles.
Bye-bye, River. I love you.
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