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Some years ago I sent my daughter on her first flight alone. She wasn’t a child but she’d never gone on a plane by herself. It was yet another in a long series of necessary releases that parenting demands. This is a reflection on that time.
I wait near the gate until she boards. Tall, lanky, her dark blonde hair pulled tight into a ponytail that cascades and expands as it sways against her back. Her hair suits her, sleek and smart with an untamed streak. Clever, aware, she carries herself with the wisdom of having grown up in New York City. A daughter to be proud of, a daughter born of a mother’s fearsome wish that she be better, better always than me.
I watch her walk, a bounce in her gait I am as familiar with as I might be a lover, as I am her father. I ache after her departure in the way I once ached after her father, my husband, my lover. But different, too, for this is the longing of a mother, the ache of a piece missing. A piece I cared for, nourished, nurtured both in and outside myself. A piece of myself I must surrender to this wayward world.
Love, romantic love is the stuff of completion, a love of fulfillment, of recognition, of a common self. “Looking together in the same direction.” Romantic love is a needing love, a longing.
This love, the mother’s love is a giving love, a love of responsibility, protection and guidance. Mother love is an offering, my life for yours, always slightly…
