My daughter turns nineteen this weekend.
Maybe because she’s away at university now, I’m thinking about it differently. We won’t be with her on her birthday for the first time.
That’s a good thing.
The passage of time. The transition into her own life.
The independence of it. The tribe of friends and peers she’s building around her.
The next phase for us as parents.
Still, as I reflect on all of this, I find myself wanting to gather up the years.
Like picking wildflowers in a field.
Arms full. Different colours and shapes.
Some bright and bold, others small and easy to miss.
I want to hold them close. My arms bursting with them.
Drinking in the fragrance of their memories.
The richness, texture, and variety of it all.
Her giant blue eyes, wrapped in a towel after a bath.
Her scratchy Janis Joplin voice as a toddler.
Her need for a detailed breakdown of the day… the week… everything ahead.
The way she makes her brother laugh.
Her FaceTimes now. Three times a day. Updates on classes, friends and life.
The wisdom beyond her years. Nineteen years.
I spend most of my time looking ahead. But today I’m looking back at that brief pocket of life when we raised our family.
It would be easy to think those years are gone. But standing here, drinking them in, they’re not gone at all.
They’re just behind me.
Still blooming.
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