A steady week of rain and clouds has evaporated—so my daughter and I take to the hare-lip of a beach which offers us cool reprieve, where the only hard choice is deciding which of twenty-six flavors of soft-serve to taste.
Bianca and I collapse onto the sand and awaken our palates to White Chocolate and Pistachio delight. She’s a week shy of beginning a paid internship in the heart of New York City and I’m fraught with silly ‘what-ifs for her safety.
Seagulls glide across the surf as we walk over shells which clink and clatter under our feet.
Just a few weeks ago, my raven-haired beauty fluttered across the Rhode Island Convention Center stage to grab hold of a college degree she’s invested countless of hours into. I’m sure I clapped loudest as my unrelenting grin almost froze my cheekbones in place. Yeah, I was that proud.
“I’m considering San Francisco, Mom. My friends are landing jobs there.”
She lifts her face to the sun not realizing her words have unnerved me. Why does she want to go so far away?
“There’s earthquakes in California,” I tell her.
“But God’s there too, Mom.”
I don’t like that she’s right.
Her newfound dreams and plans reach higher than unruly summer weeds.
“You can’t keep me in an incubator. I’m not a newly-hatched egg.” She’s all of five feet and ninety-eight pounds. She’s too determined to understand she’s still my little bird.
We train in to New York City the next evening. Bryant Park teems with folk who’ve flocked together to shimmy and shake to mambo, disco, and old-time swing. We become vibrant-colored spinning tops, our feet, riding on the rhythms of percussion and trumpet horns.