Crime Scene

It's nearly eight in the morning. On a Saturday. And the whole house is still.

This never happens.



Ever.

Everywhere I look..., every room I wander..., there's this lonely, ghostly, ethereal..., hush.

It's so quiet. It's disturbing.

Like a crime scene.

The big kids, Sunshine and Hollywood, are away for the weekend. A Speech and Debate tournament. They spent nine hours in a van yesterday. A teacher I've never even met at the wheel. My babies' lives in his hands.

But who am I kidding? They're off to argue complicated political topics, things I can't even tell you about, because I'm not learned enough to completely understand. They'll bring home medals. Or disappointment that they'll keep to themselves. They're babies, no more.

Only The Storm is home. It's been another big week. A lot of growing.

So still she sleeps.

Like the dog, she'll use this Saturday morning.

And Balthazar is out with his morning exercises. He'll ride miles, hit some golf balls then come home to me, kiss my head, where I tap away at the keys.

Writing.

Because it's quiet this morning, I can.

Because my heart hurts this morning, I can.

This morning is a premonition.

Our future. Mine and Balthazar's.

Our beautiful, lonely, wonderful, happy and sad, perfect, perfect future.

Grandkids might visit. Fill Saturday mornings, again. Sometimes.

Girl / Woman

When she was little, the rules were pretty obvious, the boundary lines clear: You can ride your bike on the sidewalk only; hold my hand to cross the road; always swim with buddy. These things, and a thousand others, I told her to keep her safe.

As Sunshine became older, she insisted I loosen the grip at her wrist.

"Trust me," she said, and I did and she grew to be this smart, strong, confident, beautiful and kind sixteen-year-old (almost seventeen-year-old!) girl/woman. (That little diagonal line separating those two words holds a world.)

I trust her. And she talks to me. And she has convinced me that the teenager stereotype, full of angst and rebellion, is a myth brought upon by a lack of understanding, communication, tolerance and patience.

And she is good, and she values the trust between us as much as I do, and here is where it gets complicated:

Last night, after a lengthy explanation about the proficiency testing going on at school, from which she is exempt, and assurances that most of her teachers will be moderating said testing, leaving her with substitutes and hours upon hours of classroom videos, make-work and general do-nothingness, she asked if she could skip school to have fun with her friends.

"I can't give you permission to skip school," I said, even as I recalled some of my favorite high school memories:

We called them day parties, these shining occasions when twenty or thirty of us would spontaneously skip off to his house, her house, the beach, a dirt road and just have the most spectacular fun in these few stolen hours. In fact, whenever I meet up with old friends, even thirty years later, these day parties take center stage under the yellow lights of our reminiscing.

So, "I can't give you permission to skip school," I said, again, "but, I won't punish you, either."

"And if you get caught, it's on you. I won't have your back."

But, this morning, as she slung her school bag over her shoulder, on her way out the door, it suddenly occurred to me that I didn't know exactly where she was going, and I'd created a situation whereby she couldn't tell me.

"I obviously don't want to know where you are going," I said, all sternness. "But, I absolutely want to know where you are going." A panic bubbled up inside me.

She laughed at me, at my ridiculous logic which grew, of course, from my desire to keep her by the hand, keep a firm grip, keep her little and home with me.

"I'll make good choices," she said, "and I'll let you know if I go anywhere different from the usual spots."

"Or if you do anything unusual."

"Okay."

"Unusual for you, not me."

"Okay, Mom."

"And be home at the usual time."

"Right."

"And make good choices."

"We're getting repetitive."

"Just go," I said.

I cried a little when she left.

Roots and Wings

This weekend marked the beginning of the end for me; our end; our empty nest. For as long as we've been us, we've vacationed together. But, this weekend, multiple agendas split us up and sent us in opposite directions, so that our small family was spread across three different states.

It smacked of the future. And I do mean smacked--as in hit hard. 

The Storm left first with her best Tweedle, for Utah.

Then Sunshine went south to a rented beachhouse in Cali. In her suitcase: bathing suits for frolicking in the waves and lounging in the sand; and sundresses for patio dining.  She sent texts--Today we're going to the beach and last night we played games till like 11. I won btw :) im having a great time--to assure me it was good she was spreading her wings. Then she attached pictures like these, as if to hit me over the head with her fast coming flight.

  

Hollywood nabbed some floor space in a Tweedle's bedroom to honor an acting commitment that would keep him in Vegas.  His texts, when I inquired, were of the one word variety--Cool; Yep; Great. Then, just when I could barely stand it: Love U.  

As for Balthazar and me, having situated the other two, we also took to the highway, to catch up with The Storm. 

There's some pretty awesome scenery between Vegas and Utah, so I snapped about a million pics of so much ancient rock.

.

Then, once arrived, we did an assortment of outdoorsy things. All at 11,000 feet! In Brianhead, Utah.

After the horseback riding, the rock climbing exercise, the ziplining, some swimming, ATV-ing, grilling, and long conversations over wine, plus smores, we retired to rest up for a morning hike that would put everything into perspective.

Cedar Breaks National Park has a glorious limestone canyon of more than 50 colors and a depth of 2500 feet.  It's said that if Cedar Breaks were located anywhere else, but the southwest, it would be considered one of the greatest scenic wonders of the world.  But since it is so close to 3 other world renound national parks (Zion National Park, Bryce Canyon, and the North Rim of the Grand Canyon) it is often forgotten.

You see, it's all relative....

At the top of Cedar Breaks, we chanced upon this beautiful Bristol Cone Pine.

And then we happened upon a Park Ranger, who told us that she, the tree, was 1,676 years old.

And I couldn't help but envision how deep into the canyon her roots dug; and all the rings that mark the old tree's interior trunk.

And there before me: layer upon layer of sediment in the ancient stone. 

In the mirror, all the time, new lines on my face.  

And The Storm lost another tooth last week.

So, of course, they'll leave.  And, of course, it will come too soon.

Of course.    

Our course.