I have long known the danger of threes, that human impulse to form "us and him/her/it" coalitions. Woe to the singleton in most of those situations.
Most, but not all.
These days, I am gleeful to be that lone "her," watching on the sidelines as Allison and Mark--daughter and father--form an impenetrable bond, usually with a guitar between them. That a 17-year-old girl would knowingly spend time with her father--seeking him out, even--is a mystery I happily witness, even if I was a wee bit jealous to learn that she texted him the other day, proposing a creeking adventure (did you know you could text a land line? Apparently, the robot-like voice is a hoot.).
I have loved watching my children grow into their own lives this year, talking of their futures with enthusiasm and hope. And I hold my breath each time they return to us for comfort and conversation, to sit in the same room with us, just to be close.
What more could a parent want than to see her offspring spring off of the roost and spread their damp, new wings, trusting the air to hold them aloft?
There are worse things than a homing pigeon finding home again, between adventures.
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