Keep Calm and Carry On
Miranda gave me these words from an old British war poster this morning. It seemed to us that they would be applicable in any number of situations, but they were especially useful today – the very day I was to take her to the airport bus where she will head to Los Angeles for a flight to London and then onward to her brand new life in Oxford. Why was this any different from all the other times we’ve said good-bye at the threshold of long distances and extended time spans? (“You know we’ve done this before, Mom,” said Miranda.)
But it did feel different somehow, for it doesn’t involve school, or a limited vacation trip, or any sort of framework that is finite, transitory, and clearly defined. No, this parting had the power of myth: a young woman sets out to seek her fortune, find her destiny, create her own story. She won’t be solo -- someone special is waiting for her, which gives the adventure a giddy sense of romance -- but this is equally about her desire to write, her enchantment with Oxford, and that undeniable proclivity she exhibited even as a child to travel and try new things and work to make real what shimmering possibilities she could imagine. She has a certain bravery and spirit, my girl, not in a stupid reckless way, but she’s game, willing to try, ready to say good-bye and step on board that outbound dream.
So why do I feel so fragile right now? I guess because I’ll miss her, damn it. And because last night she slept on the couch and I could hear her breathing and I lay awake and felt the fullness of her presence in the house and wondered what could ever take its place. Maybe it’s because I can still recall the delightful laugh she had as a toddler and the heft of her body on my hip. Maybe it’s the horse girl with the dirty fingernails I miss most, her bedside lamp on late at night, a book on the pillow. Or the earnest high school student whose meticulous notebooks we cleared from the garage just yesterday. (Remember that Miranda? She was appropriately miserable, occasionally fierce, but unfailingly true to herself.) She is twenty years old, and I have loved her in all of her incarnations and variations, all of her investigations and peregrinations, and most especially now, in this culmination, and this inauguration.
I realize I make a big deal out of things. This is, after all, what’s supposed to occur. It’s the natural course of events for the young to leave the nest, and although I’m still a bit hazy on what happens to those of us left behind to keep the boxes and forward the mail (that always struck me as the unglamorous part of the story and never concerned me before) it isn’t as though there’s anything unusual going on here. So I can shut my gaping mouth, still o-shaped in surprise. Time whirs by a little faster than you think it will. Get over it.
But it’s funny how I belatedly understand so much of what my own father must have felt while I was off inventing myself, and in ways far more dubious than my daughter’s. Funny, too, how life keeps surprising me, even in its relentless inevitability.
What did you think was going to happen? That’s what sensible people ask me. Or better still: What did you WANT to happen? The answer: this, exactly this. I wanted a daughter who would feel at home in many places because she carried a sense of home in her heart. I wanted a daughter with a clear head and high ideals, one who could see that there is trouble and would work in her own way for change, but who could also see that there is beauty and joy and would savor these. I wanted a daughter who would have the courage to leave, fortified by the knowledge that she is deeply loved, and who in turn would love deeply.
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I’m on the train as I write this. I’ve just eaten a bag of the greasiest potato chips I’ve ever had in my entire life and the sky is gray and gloomy and the conductor’s incoherent announcements intermittently blare through the speakers and it wouldn’t be so hard for me to succumb to a certain sadness that’s been tugging at the edge of me all day. It’s 4 p.m. and I imagine Miranda is getting ready to board her flight about now. I just dialed her cell phone, no response, and that’s okay. We’ve already talked twice since I dropped her off this morning, embarrassing her only slightly by running back onto the bus for one last kiss before the driver turned on the ignition.
Afterwards I saw her silhouette through the window. She was writing in her little notebook, a customary tilt of head, the familiar solace of putting words on paper, and wearing her anti-dust-bunny coat, a glorious garment of gumption right down to the fuchsia flowers embroidered at the edging. She looked so beautiful, so self-contained, so brave.
But such scenes end and you can’t just stand there. I walked back to my filthy car, and there on the seat, amidst the dog hair, dust, and crumbs, was the best present I have ever received, even better than my very first bicycle, and that’s saying a lot. It was a scrapbook by Miranda of quotes and pictures and writings of her own, and it was inscribed with the following words: “To Mom, who has given me the happiest childhood any girl could imagine and the strength to have adventures. I love you.”
That’s when I really knew we would both be all right. Sometimes joy feels a little like sadness. Who can explain such things? Is it emptiness or lightness? A heavy heart or a full one? It’s just good old tricky life, I guess, now and then giving you exactly what you wanted. Greasy potato chips notwithstanding, I am already finding pleasure in contemplating my daughter’s happiness. And tomorrow? That’s when I’ll take a good long look outside the door she’s left ajar.
In other words, I have kept calm. And I will carry on.