No stickers for absentee voters…
Today I’ll fold up the monstrosity of a drying rack that now occupies half her room, and unpin the shawl that has been blocking on her bed. I’ll dust and vacuum and do those subtle things a mother does that mostly go unnoticed, but are the markings of home and if absent, are deeply felt. I miss her always, but selfishly, I’ve missed her even more during this charged political time. We talk and text every day, but of course it’s not the same. Though I do love that of all the text exchanges we’ve shared during the last week, there was only one all-caps text (true measure of emotion, yes?) from my otherwise stoic daughter, and that was the text alerting me of Gwen Ifill’s passing. Priorities. There was a second all-caps text immediately following that may have included the words, God has left us (true measure of emotion paired with paternally inherited dark humor).
I take comfort in knowing the very things I’m missing and needing from her right now – her political prowess and critical, diplomatic mind – are the very things she is bringing to her floor mates in the dorm, and fellow students in class. In return, they share their skills and gifts with her. Like seed – these kids of ours – they scatter far from home, take root, grow into themselves and nourish others. Imagine that. Humanity is remarkably persistent and fights to carry on.
She comes home on Friday and I’m sure I don’t need to explain my excitement. There will be chocolate cream pie in the kitchen and her ever-growing pile of The New Yorker beside her bed. She’ll be home for nine days… maybe it'll be enough time to read three months of back issues, or maybe not. I’ll make another pie if needed.