When she was three, she used to stand at the screen door of our little house watching the dusk
come upon us. Unable yet, to fully comprehend time, she would turn to me, mystified, with her
achingly beautiful brown eyes and her blonde pigtails and say, "Whatever happened to our
It would kill me every time.
Even then, I knew the bittersweet depth in those innocent words. I could feel the passing of
time, there, in her question. And I knew our days together were entirely too finite. I knew our
She had screaming bouts of misery that went on and on for hours, almost as if she was trying to tell me in her own way, that this would not be easy.
And it has never been easy. It has been at times, harder than anything I've ever done.
From the early days of her infancy when I would stand under the shower at the end of the day, sobbing my heart out, my shoulders tied up in a throbbing knot, thinking I would never be able to do this; wondering how the world still carried on, when colicky babies were this hard all the way through her painful struggle with the shyness that sat on the periphery of her soul waiting patiently, constantly threatening to consume her.
We went to dinner after a long, exhausting day of tricking out and it wasn't until we walked her back to her dorm, her father wanting to make sure she knew how to use her key, that I broke down.
She said goodbye to me last, hugging her father and sisters and then she put her arms around me.
In fancy terms, I lost my shit.