My daughter is getting married in less than three months, which pretty much has me freaking out, running around in circles, and using all my creative juices figuring out how to stretch my dollars into lovely wedding décor.
Oh, for spare time in which to write to my heart’s content. Oh, the dreams I have of lounging by the sea and soaking in the sun until I’m overflowing with inspiration.Okay, I’ll admit, I did that last month, and it was wonderful. A week of sea and salt and sand and a million gazillion kids (which translates into not much time for writing).
Fortunately, one of the wonders of the sea is that it stays with you. It lingers in the mind, fresh and exhilarating. Sharp and tangy as a lime, flowing and roaring like a living thing. I still hear the cry of pelicans, see them plummet into crystal water then gulp down their quivering meal. I hear the call of strangers, searching for their lost daughter, their voices anxious as the sun sets, then panicked as darkness closes in.
“Alejandra! Alejandra!”
It’s a frightening thing, to lose a child. Especially so close to the sea. In time, they found her, wandering along the dusky shore. They gathered her in hugs and kisses and cries of relief.
In a way, I, too, am also losing a child—losing her to her own life, her newfound independence. This is a good thing, it is true. But a loss, nonetheless. Of course, I’m gaining a son-in-law. And he’s delightful, too. But the fact remains, Amanda will no longer be my own.
Am I like a sea star, losing a limb? Will it grow back in time, slightly different? Will I find that Amanda and Devon are still part of me? Will I, like Alejandra’s parents, rejoice to find my daughter, with her companion, forging her own path in life? I think so.
When sea stars lose an arm, the lost piece grows to become a whole new star, a whole new creature, just from that tiny part. Perhaps someday, my loved ones will be a cluster of sea stars, separate but still family, inching our way through the storms and beauties of the sea.
