| Sunny Side Up Oct. 9, 2002 �2002, by Kathleen Gibson A songbird flies Time, that old gypsy, has betrayed me. My only daughter, my songbird, will be married this Thanksgiving weekend. How could this happen so fast? She was a child at dawn. Tonight she�s twirling a diamond on the third finger of her left hand and standing on tiptoe to glimpse the changing landscape of her heart and home. Me too, only my diamond is twenty-seven years old, and my heart feels unspeakably ancient�not wise at all. I thought her voice would forever sing my heart cheerful, that I'd always have her at my elbow, begging to make fudge or sit up late and watch a movie. That I'd always be able to open the bathroom door and find her lolling in a tub of bubbles. Reading, and no cares in the world except that her bath water is getting cold. I thought we could evermore grab each other's hands and squeeze three times�I...love...you. I thought I had all the time in the world to sit on the edge of her bed at night and chatter about the day, pray with her�tell her that she�s my favorite daughter. Some nights I lie awake, reviewing the �should�a, would�a, could�a�s�. I should have run to help her get those sheets on her bed instead of finishing that tiny job that seemed so important. I should have instructed her better on the fine art of keeping a home. I could have gone shopping with her instead of claiming I had too much to do. I could have taken more pictures of us together. I should have video-taped her singing during those fine years when classical music, and not a tall rosy-cheeked young man, was the great love of her life. I should have hugged her more, loved her better. A stranger, observing my wedding buying, told me not to worry. �You�ll be closer than ever,� she said. How did she know? Is it so obvious that my heart is being pulled like taffy? I want to enjoy the sweetness of these memorable days. I�m eager to watch her fly. Yet like a child, I find I need reassurance that her wings will occasionally dip back into this nest that sheltered her for over two decades. I know now that I never really believed all my fine words to other mothers about our children only being loaned to us for a season. In my heart I knew she�d always be mostly mine. I was wrong. At three-thirty on Saturday she�ll accept her father�s arm and, stepping to the cadences of her brother�s guitar, she�ll make her way toward the altar and the young man I already love like a son. A few brief words later, she�ll have license to fly. It�s Thanksgiving, and I am grateful. For old love, a new son-in-law, borrowed time and blue skies. For the loan of my songbird; her sunshine and her music. And for the God who arranges and keeps us all. If these words made you reflect or respond in any way, I'd love to hear from you. Please email me at [email protected] |
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