Sometimes I miss my daughter more than others. This morning is one of those times.
Whatever your political leanings, it’s true that this is a historic day in American history, and I wish I had my girl to share that with.
I wonder what she would have been life. I wonder what she would have looked like. By now she’s be 24, graduated, maybe even grad school. Working. On her second or third love.
That’s the trickiest part of being the parent of a dead child.
The “who knows” part.
It’s like a painful mystery that never gets resolved. I try not to think about it too much, but you guys, on some days – times like right now – my heart just aches for the young woman I never get to meet.
Still, I go on.
I keep moving. I make supper for her brothers. I send love and support and cash and whatever else they need to make their own way in the world.
I love all the women they have picked. I’m proud of them for seeing how smart they each are in love.
But today is this historic day. And I want a daughter to share it with. Someone who “get’s it.”
And so I called every woman I love and shared a moment on the phone with each (or their answering machines.)
I fill the void in whatever way I can. And then I just sit with the emptiness that remains.
I’m with her, but she is no longer with me.
And that’s just part of the whole big beautiful picture of my life.
Jennifer (Grace’s mom)
photo: Erin Leigh McConnell, flickr