Flight

I hear my parents stir with the first light of dawn.  The water in the shower gurgles as it runs down the drain.  The zipper on the suitcase is fastened after last minute items are stowed.  Their flight isn't for several hours, but they will depart soon in anticipation of traffic, getting lost, and long lines at the rental car agency.  We differ in this way, I like to have as little time as possible in the departure lounge.  Last night I made them peanut butter and apricot jam sandwiches for them to take on their journey.  I'll add a couple of pieces of fruit this morning and pack it in a brown paper sack as if they were heading to grammar school.  The lines between parent and child have certainly blurred as we've aged.  I'm more protective of them.  I find myself uttering "no" through out the day.  My father resisted my declaration as he lugged groceries up the stairs, steps he has to take one at a time.  I get them water when they need to take their pills after dinner.  I hand write directions before they go off exploring on their own and we read them together in the hope avoiding the inevitable wrong turn and ensuing bickering.  Several years ago my mother calculated if she lived another fifteen years and saw me once a year she'd only see me another fifteen times before she died.  My defenses flared.  I tried to respond rationally to an emotional computation.  I see them more than once a year and the visits are often longer than a week.  I moved cross country over 18 years ago, but the anguish I caused my parents is still a fresh wound.  The guilt lobbed my way no longer sticks.  I will never be able to give them enough time.  I will never be able to give them enough of me.  For years, our visits left me emotionally depleted, but time has shifted the experience.  I've changed.  I'm grateful for their visit, and yet I feel liberated by their departure.