“Are you ready love; have you got all your stuff?” I asked
from the foot of the stairs.
A beautiful young woman, my 18-year-old daughter Becca,
bounded down the steps, a small suitcase in one hand and a black plastic bag
full of soft toys and books in the other. “Yes dad, but let me say goodbye to
mum.”
I took her luggage and placed it in the boot of my car. When
I returned to the hallway Mrs Jones had Becca in a bear-hug, both tearful,
grasping at each other.
“Look after yourself sweetie,” blubbered my wife, surfacing
from the embrace and holding Becca at arm’s length, as if to glimpse her for
one last time.
“I will mum” said my tearful daughter.
“What are you two like?” I said, “Anyone would think she’s
emigrating to Australia, rather than nipping down the M62 to Liverpool
University! Get a grip; she’ll be home in a couple of weeks.”
During the one-hour drive few words were spoken. Despite my
efforts not to, every few minutes I glanced to my left at Becca, in the
passenger seat, listening to her iPod. I smiled, smug in the knowledge that the
cute, compassionate lady at my side was mine. As I pondered how a flawed, hairy
fellow like me could have reared such perfection, a warm tingle caressed my
neck and shoulders, causing me to sit taller in the driving seat.
When we arrived at the university accommodation, I carried
her bags to her room. Once inside, I tried to make myself useful; straightening
the duvet, wiping the sink and picking imaginary specs off the carpet. I sensed
eyes on me and I turned to see Becca grinning at my delaying tactics.
“Just go dad; mum will be wondering where you are.”
I opened my arms wide and Becca walked into them. I held on
to her like a drowning man clinging to flotsam. I put my hands on either side
of her head, tilted it forward and snorted her crown. Ah a musty scent to
kindle so many memories: lifting a new-born bundle from the midwife’s arms; the
infant in a pink baby-grow lying asleep, warm and clammy, across my chest; and
the distressed toddler who, forgetting she had taken off her inflatable wings,
had plunged into the deep end of a Spanish swimming pool and was telling me,
while water dripped off her nose, “I wen tunder daddy, I wen tunder.”
And now I had to abandon her to fend for herself in a big
city. I noticed my pollen allergy was flaring so I kissed her cheek, turned and
carried on walking to my car without looking back.
I am participating in
the Dude Write Starting Lineup this week
where you can find some excellent posts by bloggers who happen to be
dudes: http://dudewrite.blogspot.com)
