CREEK ROAD GANG
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Nos Vemos
(See You Later)
Mary Porth
copyright 2010
She felt so deeply altered by the absence of her daughter that she thought it must be obvious to anyone who saw her. By night she sat on her porch observing a sparse and shadowy parade of nocturnal beings as sleep eluded her. By day she had the urge to explain herself to people she passed, as if just the sight of her would give rise to probing questions.
“Yes, well, my daughter has left for a semester in Chile. We took her to the airport Thursday.” A wave of nostalgia would pass over her, “Oh gosh, I’m just remembering Molly was born on a Thursday! Anyway, I always encouraged her to do a semester abroad, but I’m feeling…” There would be a pause in the imaginary conversation here as she grasped about for an accurate description of the vague mix of emptiness and unease inside. “I don’t know. I’m feeling somewhat adrift.”
She’d experienced these maternal moments of separation many times before with her family, but none seemed to have had this great an impact. There had been leaving her first-born (not yet fully weaned) to return to work, and the myriad good-byes associated with first days of school at various locations and levels. Not to mention the temporary emotional separations that occurred as her children strained from time to time for growth and independence. But this time was unnervingly different.
Was it the distance? Santiago was roughly 5,000 miles away from their suburban Philadelphia home. She knew this because she had measured it after dinner one night, using her napkin and the laminated map she kept handy for homework and miscellaneous discussions with the kids. (Despite a keen interest in international people and cultures they seemed to have inherited her weakness with geography.) It was almost exactly due south from their home, amazingly in the same time zone but experiencing the opposite seasonal weather. Her daughter would be bundled up in scarves and layers of thick woolen sweaters while she herself endured a typical hot and humid east coast summer.
“Only a plane ride away!” her friend, Eileen, had reassured her. Easy for her to say. Eileen traveled frequently for work. In contrast, her own world seemed to have shrunk to the size of extended family obligations and children’s activities. And anyway, it was a very long plane ride away, 12 hours in the air not counting transfers, layovers, customs and delays. Europe or Central America would have seemed much more accessible. But like the Mapuche Indian translation of the country’s name, Chile really did seem to her to be at “the end of the world”.
Or maybe it was the fact that she and Molly were such kindred spirits. They were the only “girls” in a family of men, one earnest and hard-working dad and four high-energy, high-maintenance brothers. As unintentionally quaint and traditional as it sounded, she and Molly were by nature the gentle spirits and peace makers of the home. The boys would invariably announce the beginning of a weekend morning with thudding steps, banging cabinets, and clattering cereal bowls, the exaggerated heroics and witty sound-bites of ESPN a steady background accompaniment to their noisy conversations. Molly had developed the ability to sit unperturbed amidst the din, sipping hot tea and perusing whatever was her current read, a book of e.e. cummings poetry perhaps or a solemn treatise on the crisis in Darfur.
They shared a passion for the written word and frequently swapped books. To Kill A Mockingbird was a mutual favorite. She had always proclaimed it a very special novel and Molly insisted on reading it the summer after fourth grade with a dogged perseverance and a somewhat simplified understanding of it. Her daughter re-read it many times over the ensuing years and wrote a mature and touching essay on it as part of a college application where she compared herself not to the precocious children, Scout and Jem, but to the gentle reclusive side of the infamous Boo Radley.
They both loved music as well. Just last year Molly had accompanied her when she returned to watch for a second time the small budget Irish music film, “Once”. It had moved her deeply the first time she saw it and she was excited to see her daughter react in a similar fashion. Molly had totally gotten the achingly beautiful part at the end when the man in the film, referred to in the credits only as “guy” spent his limited money on a gift of a piano to the immigrant musician friend, “girl”, he would probably never see again. In the final scenes, the camera pulled back to reveal a young woman joyfully coaxing music from an old-fashioned upright while gazing wistfully out the window of her once proud apartment building. Unseen in the distance, her benefactor strode determinedly toward the departure gate at the airport. With the acoustic strains of a beautiful melody lingering in the air, the question was had they lost out on an opportunity for a deep and true love or, in the radical generosity of letting go, had they lived it?
She wondered if, in their fictional world, the film’s characters struggled as much with their separation from each other as she struggled with this very real separation from her daughter. She felt as if her arm was missing, or perhaps something even more noticeable. An eye maybe – with no pleasant but strangely frozen prosthetic one in its place – only a gaping void.
She sighed deeply. Molly was nearly grown and it was time to rejoice in who she was as a whole separate person. Not a child. Not her daughter. But a bright young woman with plans and dreams and possibilities uniquely her own. If there was cause for rejoicing at this reality, there was also room for a mother’s sorrow. Still, she knew her grief could not be allowed to go on indefinitely.
Stirring from her silent and solitary post on the darkened porch, she stood and stretched, planning to try sleep once more. It would be daylight before long, and the others would be waking and needing her attention. But first, she closed her eyes and breathed a heartfelt message of love and encouragement, visualizing it floating across land and sea to the Andean chill of a Santiago morning. Molly's day, immersed in exciting new adventures, would go well, and she determined, grieving or no, her own would too.
“Yes, well, my daughter has left for a semester in Chile. We took her to the airport Thursday.” A wave of nostalgia would pass over her, “Oh gosh, I’m just remembering Molly was born on a Thursday! Anyway, I always encouraged her to do a semester abroad, but I’m feeling…” There would be a pause in the imaginary conversation here as she grasped about for an accurate description of the vague mix of emptiness and unease inside. “I don’t know. I’m feeling somewhat adrift.”
She’d experienced these maternal moments of separation many times before with her family, but none seemed to have had this great an impact. There had been leaving her first-born (not yet fully weaned) to return to work, and the myriad good-byes associated with first days of school at various locations and levels. Not to mention the temporary emotional separations that occurred as her children strained from time to time for growth and independence. But this time was unnervingly different.
Was it the distance? Santiago was roughly 5,000 miles away from their suburban Philadelphia home. She knew this because she had measured it after dinner one night, using her napkin and the laminated map she kept handy for homework and miscellaneous discussions with the kids. (Despite a keen interest in international people and cultures they seemed to have inherited her weakness with geography.) It was almost exactly due south from their home, amazingly in the same time zone but experiencing the opposite seasonal weather. Her daughter would be bundled up in scarves and layers of thick woolen sweaters while she herself endured a typical hot and humid east coast summer.
“Only a plane ride away!” her friend, Eileen, had reassured her. Easy for her to say. Eileen traveled frequently for work. In contrast, her own world seemed to have shrunk to the size of extended family obligations and children’s activities. And anyway, it was a very long plane ride away, 12 hours in the air not counting transfers, layovers, customs and delays. Europe or Central America would have seemed much more accessible. But like the Mapuche Indian translation of the country’s name, Chile really did seem to her to be at “the end of the world”.
Or maybe it was the fact that she and Molly were such kindred spirits. They were the only “girls” in a family of men, one earnest and hard-working dad and four high-energy, high-maintenance brothers. As unintentionally quaint and traditional as it sounded, she and Molly were by nature the gentle spirits and peace makers of the home. The boys would invariably announce the beginning of a weekend morning with thudding steps, banging cabinets, and clattering cereal bowls, the exaggerated heroics and witty sound-bites of ESPN a steady background accompaniment to their noisy conversations. Molly had developed the ability to sit unperturbed amidst the din, sipping hot tea and perusing whatever was her current read, a book of e.e. cummings poetry perhaps or a solemn treatise on the crisis in Darfur.
They shared a passion for the written word and frequently swapped books. To Kill A Mockingbird was a mutual favorite. She had always proclaimed it a very special novel and Molly insisted on reading it the summer after fourth grade with a dogged perseverance and a somewhat simplified understanding of it. Her daughter re-read it many times over the ensuing years and wrote a mature and touching essay on it as part of a college application where she compared herself not to the precocious children, Scout and Jem, but to the gentle reclusive side of the infamous Boo Radley.
They both loved music as well. Just last year Molly had accompanied her when she returned to watch for a second time the small budget Irish music film, “Once”. It had moved her deeply the first time she saw it and she was excited to see her daughter react in a similar fashion. Molly had totally gotten the achingly beautiful part at the end when the man in the film, referred to in the credits only as “guy” spent his limited money on a gift of a piano to the immigrant musician friend, “girl”, he would probably never see again. In the final scenes, the camera pulled back to reveal a young woman joyfully coaxing music from an old-fashioned upright while gazing wistfully out the window of her once proud apartment building. Unseen in the distance, her benefactor strode determinedly toward the departure gate at the airport. With the acoustic strains of a beautiful melody lingering in the air, the question was had they lost out on an opportunity for a deep and true love or, in the radical generosity of letting go, had they lived it?
She wondered if, in their fictional world, the film’s characters struggled as much with their separation from each other as she struggled with this very real separation from her daughter. She felt as if her arm was missing, or perhaps something even more noticeable. An eye maybe – with no pleasant but strangely frozen prosthetic one in its place – only a gaping void.
She sighed deeply. Molly was nearly grown and it was time to rejoice in who she was as a whole separate person. Not a child. Not her daughter. But a bright young woman with plans and dreams and possibilities uniquely her own. If there was cause for rejoicing at this reality, there was also room for a mother’s sorrow. Still, she knew her grief could not be allowed to go on indefinitely.
Stirring from her silent and solitary post on the darkened porch, she stood and stretched, planning to try sleep once more. It would be daylight before long, and the others would be waking and needing her attention. But first, she closed her eyes and breathed a heartfelt message of love and encouragement, visualizing it floating across land and sea to the Andean chill of a Santiago morning. Molly's day, immersed in exciting new adventures, would go well, and she determined, grieving or no, her own would too.
* * *
Biographical
Note: Mary Porth is a
writer who resides in suburban Philadelphia with her husband and five
children. She claims as her personal mantra the words of poet Nan
Merrill who says, “Keep your heart open and free, make time to dwell in
silence, become a peaceful presence in the world.” Although she
reached the half century mark in the summer of 2009, she’s still unsure
what to be when she grows up. Check the Author Index for Poetry, and also the Author Index for Prose for more of Mary's work.
