Rose

It's 6 am, and the third time I've awakened since the sun began to peek through the morning.  This time, I choose not to fight it, and I roll over.  There, next to me, deep in her own sleep, is Rose.

Today, we take Rose to college.  Today, she completes the journey she began when I gave her to our lives -- now I give her to her own, a new journey that only she can take.

That night she was born, I stared at her for hours.  In the middle of the night, she was brought to me, hungry and mewling, but she fell right back to sleep in my arms.  I propped her on my knees and watched her.  I couldn't take my eyes off her.  It was hours later when I realized I would serve her best by getting some sleep, and I reluctantly called the nurse to take her.  She was just so beautiful, my little girl.  She was healthy -- condition one of my bargain with God; she had her father's long eyelashes -- condition two; and later I would learn that He'd allowed her condition three as well -- she loved to read.  I was blessed.

So much has changed since that night.  Her father and I have parted; her brother's autism revealed itself; family members have been lost to death or to life-changing conditions.  But one thing hasn't changed.  I still watch her as she sleeps.

How many times have I gone into her bedroom to watch her -- hundreds?  thousands?  As I write this, she has been alive for 6,658 days.  How many nights have I quietly gone into her room, to check her breathing, to watch her dream?  I can't begin to count.  I watch her now, certainly not the last time I will do so, but the last time I will watch my little girl -- when I see her next, she will be a different person, a young woman with independence in her stride, with self-awareness in her eyes.

Her heart-shaped face.  Her long eyelashes.  The shy half-smile of sleep.  How did I get so lucky?  How did my genes and her father's combine to create this lovely, intelligent, kind, funny, daring young woman?  It's a marvel of nature, a wonder of God.  I am so proud of who she has become, of her deft wit, her urge toward generosity, the way she folds people into her protection.  

And I will miss her.  I will miss the sound of her voice, calling me from somewhere in the house, making me come to her instead of the other way around, some selfish quirk of teenagerhood that annoyed the hell out of me.  When did that start -- when she was still in diapers?  The call in the middle of the night:  "Apple juice, please!"  

I will miss her singing -- everywhere, singing.  She has been singing since before she could say full sentences.  Remember the ABC's at the grocery store?  Yes, I do.  And the words she put to that same tune, decrying her brother's actions:  "Ian took my toys away, Ian took my books away, Ian took my dolls away, Ian took my toys away."  And the time she climbed up onto the television, and to the same tune:  "I am stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck, I am stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck." 

I will miss her puns.  I will miss her awful jokes, and her splendid ones.  I will miss the way she comforted me in my darkest times, and allowed me to do the same for her.

Of course, there are things I won't miss.  We all have our foibles, and Rose is no exception.  But along the way, we have all learned from those foibles, and she has become a better woman for them.  So have I.

A woman.  How did that happen?  One moment she was refusing to get into the stroller, and the next she was refusing to tell me who was at the movies with her.  How did we go from my knowing every little thing about her life to this woman with secrets, this woman with connections and stories and history that I will never know?

Today, I take my little girl to college.  She will oversee the moving of her life into a dorm room.  She will meet people who will form the basis of her new life.  And she will banish us without so much as a second glance.

But that's later today.  For now, I watch her sleep.  This is my time with my little girl.