Dear Maya,
Today I walked to the end of the street,
to your bus stop
5 minutes early,
then walked home.
Yesterday you wanted to walk home alone.
I don’t know what to do today.
We didn’t talk about it this morning.
It’s hard.
Watching you grow, letting it happen (as if I had a choice…),
Making it happen.
You are growing, brave and independent
I am so proud of that, so proud of you.
Still it’s hard to take the risk,
To let you take the risk.
I think one of the dichotomies of being a parent is that,
While you get to re-experience the joys of childhood
You also have to relive
Just how hard it is to be a child
When all this change,
this transience, is new.
I feel like, even at thirty-eight years old,
I am bewildered by this experience of growing up, growing old…
And how tough it is to try to make peace with the inexorable advance of time,
the ceaseless changes time puts us through…
And I have had nearly four decades to wrap my head around it.
Even while I see that experience refracted, at least, two more times, through my parents,
and through you, my dear Maya.
And so,
we’ll keep waiting for the bus together in the morning…
And I’ll keep finding some reason to be at the end of the driveway watching for you when you
get home…
Until time changes that too…
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