There was that one time she moved away from home. Then there were those other times she liked a boy and lived in another country and bought her first car. And as might be expected, like all worthwhile exploits, she began to feel new things, exciting things, thrilling, terrifying, difficult, and painful things. Everything felt so much deeper and more intense. And as these new sensations stirred within, she knew she was growing up.
Her dad knew it too. Part of him wanted to stop it or at least slow it down, though the better half knew that true love would and could only help it along. And he loved her. With all of his heart and listening ear and encouraging words, he loved her in unspeakable ways and depths.
Now on this particular afternoon after a difficult week of teary goodbyes and a funeral, the dad drove his not-so-little girl to the airport. However, this time upon arrival at the departures area, he turned into the parking garage instead of the drop-off zone like he usually did. There was just something about this day. He wanted to, no, he had to walk her inside and all the way to the gate if only security had let him and, boy, did he try. He tried hard and many times over with the TSA and then the ticket agent and then the airline rep and then the TSA again. He wanted to be with her for as long as possible.
Flushed with embarrassment, the girl stood there in disbelief at her dad’s relentlessness. She had taken several planes before and he had dropped her off several times without a scene. So, why this time? What did he know that she didn’t? What did he feel that she couldn’t?
Inquisitive thoughts aside, the ordeal ended with a resounding NO. That being the case, the father turned back to his daughter and hugged her and every last bit of twenty-something-year old smugness out of her. She was his Sweet. And nestled securely within in his arms, the girl’s feelings of embarrassment quickly turned to pride and pleasure and joy in the verity that she was loved.
Then as the moment ended, far too quickly as most do, she proceeded on through the line and the metal detector and to the other side of security and turning around,
I waved back to my dad.
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With the ungodly amount of just-washed laundry back in its rectangular cubbies and the calendar now turned to the right month, I’m back and caught up and sitting still for the first time in a very, very long time. Now while I work to gather my thoughts, my millions of thoughts, into a single-file line, I can’t help but see my mom in the front. Check that. I see my mom in the front moving the red rope and making friends with the bouncer and giving him chocolate-covered macadamia nuts.
For those of you who know her…right?
For those of who don’t know her, my mom is Aunty Aloha. She smiles all the time and extra big. She says “hi” to everyone. She strikes up conversation with anyone. She is one of the friendliest individuals you will ever meet, and she was here in New York not too long ago…taking pictures of the rosetta in her latte (that I made), taking pictures of other people’s lattes (that I made), taking pictures with my boss and telling customers, “That’s my daughter!”
In all honesty, I was a bit embarrassed at first. It was like the terribly awkward first day of school that I’ve never actually had. Be that as it may, I couldn’t be mad. I couldn’t be mad when I thought of my dad. I can’t be now with my mom.
For what are supposed to be normal dispositions and futile endeavors to prove one’s self to others and/or keep a cool face in front of them, all of those have been forever shamed by love, a parent’s love. Two of them, actually. And I own it. I claim it. I claim her, and I say, “That’s my mama!”
I take time right now to remind myself, before another funeral has to, of this unparalleled mystery that is a parent’s love because I don’t ever want to take it for granted.
I don’t ever want to take you for granted, Mom.
So while I can still say and you can still hear (or read) it, thank you. Thank you for believing in me when I didn’t and don’t. Thank you for supporting me and being my biggest fan, even if for the time being that means getting excited about the pictures I draw in people’s coffee. Thank you for loving me in and through and with everything. I appreciate it far more than I am able to say, although it is my sincerest hope that within time you may see it through the way I live. Thank you again, Mama.
I love you.
