The quietest moment

My youngest daughter is home for the remainder of the week because she lives in Detroit, and Detroit has closed down for the SuperBowl and tourists.

She came home last night looking young and fresh. Whenever I see her after a period of time, it is always like taking that first breath of spring air. And eventhough both of my daughters have held me in suspended awe from the first day they slipped out of me and into my life, this one is different.

This is my baby girl.

My baby girl is at that time in her life when she is ready to fly as far and as high as life will let her--as a woman. So now I must prepare again for the quietest moment of my life: the moment she leaves.

It is a quiet moment because we will have said everything that needed to be said. It is quiet because we will be holding our breath and holding back our tears. It is the quietest moment because joy and sadness gel us to numb.

We will look at each other and without saying a word, know the truth:
She can't stay with me, and I can't go with her.

It is the quietest moment of separation.