Peach Pie for Breakfast Makes Goodbyes Even Worse...
August 14, 2009
When I was Cooper’s age, I told my parents I would live on their front lawn forever. My Mom laughed, my Dad hoped but both said, “Rebecca, someday you will change your mind.” I shook my head and my parents smiled.
I kissed my nephews and sister goodbye last night, as my heart felt like it might implode. Tears running down my face and my Dad asked if I was ok. I wanted to say, 'Can I live in your front lawn?'
“Goodbyes are hard.” I said blowing my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt, “Plus, I am a crier, you know that.”
“I know.” He said, tears in his own eyes, “I've been known to cry too. But the goodbye is harder for us, I hope you know that.” He said seriously, as his eyes met mine, I nodded, not sure that was really true.
This morning, Mom was up early, the coffee brewed, the clothes washed, and soon would be folded. Egg frittata whipped, prepared, presented. Bagel, cream cheese, basil, tomatoes. The three of us, just like the year I moved home when I was broken, sad, divorced. Yet now I wasn’t broken, just sad, wondering how I could possibly reconcile living so far away. As my mind started to formulate the words, “I can’t.” My mom interrupted with, “How about peach pie?” she said with a smile.
"For breakfast?"
"Absolutely!"
When I was Cooper’s age, I told my parents I would live on their front lawn forever. My Mom laughed, my Dad hoped but both said, “Rebecca, someday you will change your mind.” I shook my head and my parents smiled.
I kissed my nephews and sister goodbye last night, as my heart felt like it might implode. Tears running down my face and my Dad asked if I was ok. I wanted to say, 'Can I live in your front lawn?'
“Goodbyes are hard.” I said blowing my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt, “Plus, I am a crier, you know that.”
“I know.” He said, tears in his own eyes, “I've been known to cry too. But the goodbye is harder for us, I hope you know that.” He said seriously, as his eyes met mine, I nodded, not sure that was really true.
This morning, Mom was up early, the coffee brewed, the clothes washed, and soon would be folded. Egg frittata whipped, prepared, presented. Bagel, cream cheese, basil, tomatoes. The three of us, just like the year I moved home when I was broken, sad, divorced. Yet now I wasn’t broken, just sad, wondering how I could possibly reconcile living so far away. As my mind started to formulate the words, “I can’t.” My mom interrupted with, “How about peach pie?” she said with a smile.
"For breakfast?"
"Absolutely!"
Comments