“How many times I sat on my bed, crying and red-faced because my infant wouldn’t sleep. How many times I wished for them to walk instead of whining about not being able to do it. How many times I wanted to let go before they were ready.
Now it seems that the opposite will become reality. They will be ready to let go before I would ever even consider it….”
When I was a child, I used to love waiting for my father to get home.
Whether I was perched in my bedroom window, watching the driveway through my sheer drapes, or out in the outermost parts of our yard, at the edge of the woods, barefoot. I was kept watch despite whatever activity I was engaged in. Expectantly excited.
Down the driveway his green truck would come. The radio blaring loudly through the windows; some kind of oldies station or The Beatles typically on. I would always peek sheepishly around the side of the house before I waltzed over our clamshell driveway to greet him. He smelled of dirt and oil and grease. In a good way. He spent long, hot, hazy summer days on a golf course “keeping the grass green.” It was a perfume of the outdoors, of the working man.
Though I always thought I was the…
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