Last Morning

Ever so lovingly, she folds her daughter's grape-purple sweater that still held her familiar scent. She noticed a speck of lint that clung stubbornly near the hem. She paused with a quizzical look on her tired, sleep-deprived face as she pondered for a second. She wished that she were that clinging speck of lint on her daughter's sweater. She sucked in some air as her cheek fell on the perfectly folded wooly top. Her quiet sobs are desperate now. In just a few hours, her youngest child, her beautiful daughter, will be leaving home to attend college. She will never again watch the clock in the afternoons to make sure she's home when her daughter arrives from school. There will be no more afternoon chats when she hears her voice prattle about her day's experiences, her classes, her friends, her concerns. There will be no more late night chats about her first love who drives a red truck, her heartaches, her joys, her ups and downs, her plans, her anticipations. She will no longer hear the piano played with such determination and exuberance that affirms her love for jazz. There will be no jazz concerts, orchestra concerts or honor nights. She will not sit in her home office in the afternoons waiting to hear the garage door open as the jeep sputters into its stall and then shortly, the joy of hearing her daughter's voice as she yells "hello?" to herald her homecoming. She shudders at the prospect of having to drive by the high school every day only to realize that she has no more children housed in its classrooms and hallways. Tears begin to flow down her cheeks. Another door about to close. Another child will fly the coup. But this time, there will be no more children left behind. She quietly walks down the hallway. All is quiet this morning. The kitchen is still full of dirty dishes and remnants of yesterday's busy bustlings. Everyone is still asleep. She sits on the over-stuffed chair and vaguely stares out the window. She wonders if she has taught her well. She wonders if she will miss her. She wonders if she will always remember that her love for her is deep, strong and abiding. Tears well in her eyes again. Tomorrow, everything will be different. The nest is empty now.

Mother. What a wonderful title. And I bear that privilege with the deepest gratitude. And when my children call me "mom", all that the world deems important---wealth, power, royal titles or office or professions, be it doctor, lawyer, engineer or bishop, or any other alphabet affixed after one's name, becomes so woefully insignificant. I have been blessed four times with children. And I am...a mother. Forever.

After some moments of melancholy, I stand up and with just enough determination to move forward, I saunter to the kitchen and soak in the wonderful, glorious mess. In just a few minutes, all will be well. I will look forward and talk about all the wonderful things that she is about to experience in college. And I will talk about all the exciting plans I have, all the things I will finally have the time to accomplish and all the trips I've always wanted to take that I will finally get to experience. There will be jokes, laughter and happy anticipations of great experiences that lie ahead. Such is a mother's day when her life is about to shatter into a million pieces and on the morrow, she will never be the same.

4 years later... We are in Paris at the Palais Versailles