In the Rear View Mirror

I pulled up to the curb, alongside the elementary school, with two minutes to spare.  My kids flung open their doors, grabbed the straps on their backpacks and leaped towards their day with wild abandon.  Occasionally there was a perfunctory wave or word of goodbye.  As I readied myself to pull away, I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw a mom kiss each of her daughters as they prepared to leave the vehicle.  The girls walked on, and I watched their mother as she waved and blew more kisses, with a big smile on her face.  They were not, as one might think, little girls; they were around ten and twelve years old.  As I pulled out into traffic, my heart lurched and my eyes sputtered as I longed for a tender, goodbye kiss.

When had my kids last accepted a kiss goodbye from me?  I had to search back in my memory banks, and I was beginning to wonder – had I ever kissed them?   

For reasons I don’t understand, at the age of about six, Laurèn began to turn her face whenever I went to kiss her on the lips; a habit she continues to this day.  For Yohannes, on the first day of Kindergarten he made it pretty clear that he did not want any (more) gooey-love from me; he thrust his hands in his pockets and created enough distance between us to give the impression that we were not together.  And when a stranger called out his name from her clipboard, he left me standing alone, waiting for a goodbye that wasn’t going to come.  With Faven, our memories began when she was already ten years old.  There were no wet and sticky baby smooches or tender toddler moments to recall.  Now, she continues to cherish her goodnight kiss, but when we are in public she is at her unpredictable best; she is at times affectionate and warm and at others, distant and cold. 

On this day, although I cherished the glimpse back in the rear view mirror, I felt a simultaneous heaviness at the realization that some things have passed beyond memory and reach.