Shot

Here it is again

Your going

Ginormous spans of time and distance

Echo in the gap between us

How is it

I am not mad with grief and fear?

It’s because I was shot

The last time you left on a jet plane

I was shot to the heart

The meds

Your arrival, your joy, your return

They still run through me

Like the waterfall you stood under

Eternal it seemed

Did you hear it?

Over the age old rush

Of hydrogen, oxygen, and gravity?

“This is my daughter.

Whom I love

With her I am well pleased.”

I did

Hear it

Something different

But still

“You there.

You are a modern day Mary.

You bore her, raised her, and when the time was fulfilled

You balanced her life and your punctured heart

In your trembling mama hands

Dripping with tears, not blood

You offered her as a live sacrifice

To me, to the world

Blessed are the hands that are open, not clenched

Palms without fingernail-shaped wounds

Extended

Freely, faithfully.”

The symptoms

The what ifs and will I ever

(Inhale her Pantene twirls again)

Didn’t present until 24 hours out this time

Burning eye syndrome, leaky gutter nose, shovel scrapes in the belly

They’ve only just now come

To be honest, on the pain scale, they’re a scant three or four

And then, only if I shut out everything else

Drill down

Attend the guttural jeer of she’s leaving you

For another mother

A different family

I flip my hair and anxiety, albeit lesser,

Behind me

Where I can’t see it

I almost yell at the mirror

You’re shot, remember?

Vaccinated

It can’t hurt you

The unblessed absence of assurance

Faith exists only in the invisible

Sight and knowing?

Where is the thrill, the miracle, the mountain top, in that?

I trust

I have to

But at least I can 

‘Cause I’ve been shot

Inoculated

One bout with loss, fear, and the unknown

(Then reunion and recovery)

Left me so much stronger

Able, if not ready

(And really, when will I ever be ready?)

To do it all again

Held

I almost lost it--my sanity, my togetherness—when the song came on. “This is what it means to be held.  How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life.” I covered my mouth. So she wouldn’t hear the sound of my desperation. I pushed my sunglasses up, thankful for them. She was awake. She might be watching. I need Superglue. I blinked back tears. ‘Cause I’m falling apart.

I focused on I-270. Is war like this? My brow furrowed. Where’d that come from? But I knew. The trip to the airport felt as if I was going to certain death. Like Prince Caspian and the Narnians. Before the fighting trees showed up. Like Aragorn and King Theoden at Helms Deep.  Before Gandalf arrived with the Rohirrim. Like us.  Before Jesus came.


For a week, maybe two, I had a ritual. Let my eyes burn. Allow a few tears to fall. Then I stopped ‘em. You can cry all you want, the day after. Keep it together for now. So she won’t see. Don’t soak her dream with your sorrow.

I almost failed. Husband asleep. Little guy reading. Our oldest daughter looked out the window. Then that dang song came on. The girl sang about the sacred being ripped from your arms. The SUV swerved as I lost my grip on the steering wheel for a second. I eased the car back to the center of the lane. Set my face like flint.


At the airport Daddy saved the day. He leaned over the counter.  “Her flight’s been pushed back,” he told the customer service representative. “She’ll never make her connect. Can you put her on the—"  He glanced at his watch. “The one that leaves in 20 minutes?” It was accomplished.

We sprinted to the escalator. What if she gets stuck in security? My breath came in gasps. What if her plane crashes? I put my hand under her backpack, heavy with books. Tried to bear some of its weight so she wouldn't have to.  We didn’t get to pray for her. One last time. I struggled to keep up. If she cries, I will lose it. I'm serious.  Right here. In front of all these people.

At the turnstile she faced us. I felt as if I was breathing in a plastic bag. My eyes shone with unborn tears. This is it.

I laid my hands on her hair.  Dug my fingers into the curly mass.  “Oh, God! Cover everything.” Spirit, please pray what I don’t know how to.

And she was gone. She didn’t look back. Did she not want to be Lot’s wife?


The next morning I couldn’t move. I felt almost bound. Like a thick blanket was on me. A weighty covering. It was warm.  Expensive. I don’t know how I knew it was costly, but I did. I pulled my arms out and stroked the luxurious softness.  Without looking, I could tell it was silvery aqua. Gorgeous. I inhaled. Identified the fragrance as lilies and lemons. Then I knew. What it was. It’s peace.  And grace.

I smiled and opened my eyes. That's when I remembered.  The rest of the song. “This is what it means to be held.  How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life. And you survive.”

Tamper Resistant

I got up early today.  Ate breakfast after I fed the animals.  I walked over to the calendar, knowing I shouldn't.  I couldn't help it.  I had to.  It's like the days and weeks had some crazy gravitational pull.  I held onto the kitchen table, but in the end, the calendar won.  I counted the days.  Twenty seven.  I collapsed onto a kitchen chair.  Pressed a cloth handkerchief to my nose.  Lately I've made sure there's one in every room. 

In 27 days you'll make like John Denver and leave on a jet plane.  Go halfway 'round the world.  For three whole months.  You'll come back for 30 or 40 days, then off you'll go again.  For a long, long time. 

I feel as if I've been diagnosed with something awful. 

"I'm sorry," the doctor'd say.  "We're going to have to cut out a third of your heart.  The other two thirds are fine.  For now.  They won't have to come out for, let's see . . . three years, and seven, respectively."


After lunch I went upstairs.  I squinted when I walked by your little brother's room.  He was lying on his bed, dressed, with a pillow over his face.  I went to him, laid my hand on his shin.  He peeked out.  His eyes were small and red.

"What's up, bud?"

"They wouldn't let me play Capture the Flag," he said.

I sat beside him and twirled one of his silver-blonde curls around my finger.

"I'm sorry."

He rubbed his nose.  "It's not so much they wouldn't let me play," he said. "It's more that . . . she'll be leaving soon and . . ."  His voice trailed off.

"It's what's supposed to happen," I told him (and me) as I rubbed his lightly furred, 10-year old legs. "Kids grow up. They start hanging out more with friends than family. Then they go away."

He buried his face in my side.  I scrunched his hair with my berry-colored fingernails.

"It's normal, but that doesn't make it easier, does it?"

I felt him nod against my ribs.  We sat there for a minute.  Quiet.  He put the pillow back over his face.  I patted his leg and stood.

Out in the hall my nose burned, then my eyes.  It didn't take long for them to give up the tears that seem to be always ready these days.  I know I hurt, but my little guy feels it too?  That's somehow heavier.  My sadness plus his grief equals more.


"When you left for college, your dad got depressed."

I'd smiled when Mom told me that a few years back.  "Really?"

That is so sweet.  I'd put my hand over my heart.  Pictured his light blue eyes and the way they almost disappeared into the nearby crowsfeet when he smiled.  He loved me that much?  Awww.

Now it's happening to me.  I suppose it's that whole what-goes-around-comes-around thing.  I thought about it as I made my latte today.  I pressed hard on the tamper thing.  "Apply approximately 30 pounds of pressure," the espresso machine directions said. 

I have to apply way more pressure than 30 pounds to tamp down all the stuff inside me right now.  I need to practically put my whole weight to it.  To hide it.  See, I don't want you to notice how close to the surface my tears are.  My fears are.  Thing is, this is your time.  This is the biggest, bestest thing you've ever done.  You're looking as forward to it as I am dreading it.  I don't want you to worry about me.  To feel guilty that I'm such a wreck.


Sometimes I walk over to the mirror on the dining room mantle.  I look into it and smile.  Well, I try to.  "I went to Europe for a summer when I was 22," I say.  "Now it's your turn." 

I stand there 'til I think of something else.  "And your cousin?  She's been a nanny in England and Spain.  Spent a year in Buenos Aires too.  If she can do it, so can  you." 

I came up with another one yesterday.  "In eight months, all your travelling will be done, and you'll be home for good." I held both sides of my face and grinned.  I had another thought, and my shoulders sagged. 

"But then you'll be off to college," I said.  "At least there, you'll only be four hours away, instead of half a world."

Half a world away.  Where I can't fix you supper, pet your curls, take care of you if you get sick.  What if you get sick, baby?

Tears.  Again.  I press my fingers against my eyes and hiss.  "I'm not going to drink any more water.  Then you'll go away.  Dry up.  Right?"


I called my best friend from high school after supper.  She's got a grown up girl of her own.  I hadn't planned on sobbing, but I did.  I've decided crying's like Advil when you have the flu.  It helps for about four hours, then the symptoms--tears, runny nose, urge to clutch at your heart--come back.  The tears are always there, simmering, just below the surface.  Threatening to uncurl my eyelashes and run little creeks through my blush.

It's after midnight now.  You know what that means, don't you?  There's just 26 more days.