I found the slip of recycled paper, with its pale pink and blue lines, lines that are intended to help keep the letters in alignment. We’d practiced at the dining room table, where she taught me that “dirt letters” are the ones that dip below the lines and that to get the spacing right “ya just put a finger in there.” That paper always gets me, undeniably marking a passage I did not witness.
She can write letters I didn’t teach her, spells words I didn’t know she knew. Her reading went from tentative to scholarly, more than once I swallowed a, “Do you want me to help?” as she ran her finger beneath a word she hadn’t known the day before.
“The dog scampered around the gully and retrieved the ball.” I waited for a “See, mom, I got it,” but it never came. She took one of her hands and tossed her hair behind her shoulder, the line of her jaw more chiseled than I remembered. She continued reading and I laid a hand on the small of her back, wanting to keep up, hold on, but fearing that if I pressed too hard she might just brush at me like she did her hair.
I looked at her writing on the thin, slip of paper. She had used one of those pens that has buttons for blue, red, green and black ink at the top. She had written on several different lines, different approaches to the same message. I saw the familiar angles of her way of writing “love” and smiled. My breath caught as I saw that it wasn’t meant for me or for Sean. It wasn’t a letter to grandma and it wasn’t about princesses. It was a love letter, a genuine I-love-somoeone-other-than-my-mom-and-dad letter.
She wears my shoes in the house, covets a certain necklace and preens whenever I relent and dust her cheeks with blush and apply mascara to her lashes. I perched on the edge of her bed last night and ran my fingers through her hair. I traced my finger along her lips and kissed her brow. She didn’t stir, and I waited, hoping for something. I whispered, “I love you sweet Briar” and she slipped a hand over mine. I pressed my cheek against it and made a silent promise to take what I can gently and to celebrate what she begins to give what had once been reserved for me to other people.
My sweet Briar, has fashioned a little sail boat and while it’s still tethered to home, I believe that the call of the open sea and new adventures is growing evermore enthralling.
You capture the need to hold on so eloquently.
Always hold on, even if it feels like gossamer. My mother always did, and only now do I appreciate it and wish I’d recognised it sooner.
oh, that made me gasp
you are such an awesome mom
She’ll take you with her on all of those new adventures…
*sob* Dammit, you did it again. They grow up before our very eyes.
This is so beautifully written and makes me ache for a daughter (even as much as I love my two little boys). I love the details you chose to illuminate your story (the four-color pen, the finger space between words). Thank you for sharing this moment.
Oh, boy, this is both beautiful and bittersweet. The letting go … I don’t know how I’ll manage.
Oh! Wonderful. Really wonderful. Fill my eyes with tears wonderful.
It’s amazing how you can blink and they jump ahead of you. Here’s to going through today with my eyes wide open.
What a beautifully written post. My daughter is just three and already I feel that she is growing oh so quickly into a little girl. She is still at the moment in that phase when all she wants is to be with Mommy but I often wonder how much longer this will last and wrote about it recently (wondering if she will still need me when I am 64). It must be so hard letting go but I imagine at the same time you feel intense pride in her achievements and development.
Stopping by after reading your comments on Mom-101 and I am so glad I did
You’re definitely doing all the right things! Learning to hold on but not too tight is the tough part. Sometimes it feels like being dragged, the speed at which they grow, but hold on tight because the ride is incredible.
Thank you for nodding, smiling and tearing up right along with me 🙂
It never fails that your writing gives me chills. Beautiful.
Oh, this is heart wrenchingly sweet.
Oh, boy, this is both beautiful and bittersweet. The letting go … I don’t know how I’ll manage.
you tell this tale beautifully.
Another amazing entry.
I already read that, it’s interesting Regards
“…made a silent promise to take what I can gently and to celebrate what she begins to give what had once been reserved for me to other people.”
Yes, this. Exactly. Beautifully written.