She’s 17. It’s Saturday. I’m flying around the house stripping beds, unloading the dishwasher, dragging out the weeklong pile of recycling, folding a load, feeding the dog, and telling him he’ll get his walk later. I’ll be ready to run errands shortly. Will she be ready to go in a half hour? She wants to hang out with me and talk.
I sit down on her bed, and rest my chin on a pile of sweet folded laundry. She’s holding a copy of The Grapes of Wrath and begins to talk. “The kids laughed at the last page mom.” “Yesterday in class we talked about the ending and they thought it was gross.”
“Mom, I think it’s beautiful.” “Can’t they think about the deeper meaning?” She began reading beautiful passages of the book. I hadn’t read it in years and was quickly drawn in and remembered how the younger me also fell in love with the rawness and the beauty of the language. “It’s been years since I read this Maggie. You make me want to read it again,” I responded. We sat and talked, holding the best book discussion I’d had in years and I realized yet again how much I will miss her when she leaves for college next year.
I watched her as she talked, listening to her thoughts but deep within my own. My eyes wandered to the stack of journals on her nightstand, many of which I’d purchased for her….Carpe Diem….We are Music -Makers and We are the Dreamers of Dreams, The Happy Book, 642 Things to Write About, Say Things to the World that are True, and a few marbled compositions notebooks. “Mumford and Sons” floated in the room. The field hockey photos, the banjo and guitars, hanging on the walls. I turned my head into the soft clean laundry so she wouldn’t see the tears. Some people call their husbands their soul mate. This beautiful daughter of mine is just that. My soul mate.
This is what Saturday is really about. I’ve slowed myself down. I notice the sun on the crusty March snow outside. Maybe the two of us will take the dog for a walk and continue our talk.