Time to Say Goodbye

This good-bye was difficult; I suspect they will get harder each time now. Perhaps its because we are older, perhaps because we had a good, long visit; perhaps because Grammy is ninety-two in a couple of weeks and will she see her again; perhaps because we do not know what she will be doing in a couple of months and wonder if she will have work or not. Maybe, its a combination of all of them, but I think the first perhaps is the biggest reason for Bill and the last perhaps, for me.

We give birth, we raise them to the best of our ability and hopefully, help them on their way to living their potential best, and we nudge them out of the nest. We welcome them home on occasion; we help them as best we can; we try to withhold advice unless asked for it. We worry, we pray, we try to encourage.

Every time, I say, "we will email more." We agree to that. This time, we say, we will do it. Time slips away, day by day, and somehow, so does the communication. It's not that we aren't on this communication machine often enough. But, this time, I have said it again, and I sincerely mean it, we will keep in touch better. I will. She will if I will.

My heart hurts. She is my little girl, after all, one of the two I gave birth to, read to, strolled with, took places so she could work or be with friends, watched graduate twice, put on a train to start her first journey, put on a plane many times. She knows her way and how to get there. I marvel.

I remember;

Dr. Stephen Gader saying, "What a beautiful baby."

Driving home from the hospital. I had just dressed her for the first time. I remember driving down the Campbellton hills to home with her in my arms, before car seats were mandatory.

Hearing her father say: "if they have my brains and your tenacity, they will do well." They do.

Sitting her on Grampy Vasseur's lap in the rocking chair in the kitchen. His heart hurt, but for a different reason. We had to lift her onto his lap; he couldn't do the lifting anymore. He knew the other hurt, though, just as well as we do.

Pushing an empty stroller. It took a lot longer, but she was independant from day one. She walked, holding on the the back of the stroller.

Reading at bedtime. We read together until she was twelve or so. Our personal time, after little sister was tucked into bed. The last book we read together was "Hans Brinker." She is still an avid reader, and reads a wide genre.

Lying on the floor, tuckered out after working all day and making supper. Closing my eyes and playing with my girls. Did they know I was resting while trying to provide quality time, and could hardly could keep my eyes open?

Hiking at Fundy. Those Fundy hikes are a big family memory. One morning, we looked for her when it was time to go. Having her personal communion, she was, and resented our intrusion. She's still a very private girl - young woman. I respect that, even though I am curious sometimes.

Playing at the farm. The girls made new farm memories, with their grandmother at the wood stove: three generations of grandchildren, (although my mother doesn't remember much about her grandmother being at the stove because whe wasn't often there) just as I made memories while my grandmother cooked for me.

Sending her off to university. Taking her up to her room in residence and trying to help her make her bed. She could do it herself, she said. And, she did. I remember driving away . . . leaving her standing there on the sidewalk.

Sending her off to Asia, just weeks after she graduated and attended her Grampy's funeral. Watching the train to Toronto pulling out of the station and answering the phone when she arrived.

Walking away this morning. Wanting her to be happy, to be the best she can be, to come home sooner this time. Wanting to hold her forever but letting her go.

Go in peace, my daughter. I love you. I love your sister too - both the same amount - both in your own, individual, unique ways. Your Daddy loves you too.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHBkxTnMhXY