Shadows

Sometimes, the hardest part about having a house guest isn't the lack of privacy or the disruption in your routine, or even that they leave the cap off your toothpaste. In the case of my mother, who always packs her own toothpaste, the hardest part is usually saying goodbye.

No, actually, that's not accurate. Saying goodbye takes 30 seconds at the airline terminal, the security guard giving us the evil eye should we presume we are allowed to "park" there. The hardest part is after she leaves, after I've spent three days adjusting to her presence, I suddenly feel an emptiness in the car, a quiet in my apartment, a distinct lack of energy where sunlight used to shine. It's always a long, lonely afternoon that I can never fill because something tangible is missing.

I woke up this morning and the first thing my mom said to me was, "I got sick!"

"What!?" I asked. "What happened?" Was it too much wine the night before, food poisoning, perhaps? Or was it something more serious? My mind raced with the possible afflictions her almost 57-year old body could face.

"I don't know," she answered, tearing up. "I just got sad. The weekend's almost over."

Oh, I thought, relieved, that she said "sad," not "sick." I could handle sad. We go through this every time. Unfortunately, though, it never gets easier.

Like me, my mom left home for another state while the ink was still drying on her college diploma. She never went back. So I often wonder whether she cries not only because she misses me, but because she's afraid I'm following just a little too closely in her footsteps.