Senior Year

Japanese spoken from kitchen;
daughter and her friend from
Nagasaki cooking miso soup
and soba noodles; curry too.
I cannot understand a word.
A whole world where I only
exist on the periphery. Modest
words, well-timed words might
strike a chord in her heart,
might just bounce away as she
moves on to the next group
of friends or activity. Be us well.
It is her job to break away from
me this year--to see herself as
distinct and separate and capable
of handling the decisions that
will surely come her way.
Where to go to school, as I've
told her, is her decision. She
does not need to argue with me
about how a friend told her
the cafeteria at such and such
small-town private college was
dark and dingy and how that
comment carries far more weight
than the extensive research I may
have done about the school,
showing the generally positive
comments of many of the school's
past and present students.
And as she breaks
one boy's heart another boy
breaks hers. But she bounces
back quickly. This one is resilient;
she brought that home from her
year in Japan along with her new-
found independence. So she'll
be okay. And I'll be okay. As a
wise person once told me,
"sometimes love is not about
hanging on, but all about letting go."