Flight

Last week I helped Cait move out of the house she'd shared with friends for the last two years. She would be leaving for Spain the next morning, and we were a little frazzled, I think, both of us worrying about the unknown. She would be leaving behind trusted and needed friends, heading into a completely foreign new life for two months. I would be seeing a child head off into the world - again - and I dreaded the fear I knew I'd feel every day until she came home.

There's something final, even disquieting, about a child leaving home. Like shoving a baby bird out of the nest and hoping to God you didn't shelter them too much so that they're too weak to make that maiden flight successfully. There are predators on the ground, waiting. And no matter how much you tell them what to look for, that youthful sense of immortality is wedged like gauze in their ears.

So as I sit high above, watching my baby drift on the wind and surveying the landscape for danger, I pray that her wings are strong, she listens to her heart, and she stays safe as she flies away.