I just put my daughter on a plane bound for Colorado.  As I sat there in the airport, I looked out the window at the plane, watched as the ramp to the door was pulled back, saw the door close to the luggage hold, gazed upon the trucks that delivered the luggage pulled away.  Everyone moved away from the plane as it readied to leave except for the truck that pushed it backwards out onto the runway to taxi off into the distance.  I thought to myself, how weird it is that I’m sending my child, the love of my life off into the sky.  Soon she will be miles above the earth and I am not even slightly afraid.  How odd it is that we place ourselves in the sky like that.  How bizarre that we transport ourselves, airborne.  And I was not afraid.

I wondered whether I would have a premonition if the flight were in danger.  If I ever strongly felt such a premonition I would not allow my child to fly.  I would believe myself.  But I wondered, sitting there, whether I would have such knowledge to honor.  Odd thoughts these.

My brother commented on my blog on him.  I reread what I wrote and as I did tears came.  I read Derek’s comments and felt sad.  That boy I love so much who I suppose isn’t a boy.  He wants to do better.  I genuinely believe that.  But sometimes I think he does not think himself capable.  I’m trying to teach him about living in the moment.  I’m trying to show him that concerns about the future that keep him awake keep him from enjoying where his is right now.  So much of his life is worry about what will be or self-loathing at what has been.  He laments his luck and I want to show him that so much of it isn’t luck, but choices.  I want him to see that he can make different choices and perhaps end up with a different result.  It seems so clear to me, yet so murky to him.

He came to me last night and said that Sarah read my blog and said I called her dumb.  I knew the moment that he said it that it was true.  I remember writing it and thinking she would never read my words.  But she did and I am sorry.  I did not want to hurt her.  I want to be honest, but I don’t want to hurt anyone.  I do not know how to reconcile that.  I think if my parents read the story of Derek, they might see my version of them as a criticism.  I suppose in some ways it is there.  My judgment.  Is it possible to observe and report without judgment?  I do not know how to do that.  I have my opinions, my observations.  Whether or not they are accurate or fact isn’t always possible to ascertain.  Perhaps there is a bit of truth and fiction in them.

Also a couple of days ago I wrote about Valentine’s Day.  I said that my blog friend admired my blog for its lack of a point.  I read him wrong.  He did not mean that, but the opposite.  He wrote to me and quoted what he said again.  He was right.  He did not say I have no point.  Perhaps it was easier for me to accept that version of reality because it is what I already believed to be true.  So often I get started, type like mad as the words flow effortlessly from my brain, then arrive somewhere unsure how to conclude.  In that, I find my lack of a point.  Perhaps it is there, but in my inability to conclude in a tight and concise manner, I ascertained a pointlessness.  His observation of my mistake made me laugh. He was right.  How quickly we assume we know something when we bring our own prejudices to it.

So here I am again at the end wondering how to conclude neatly and cannot do it.  All the previous words flowed from my fingers.  Now my fingers stutter.  I type a sentence, then pause.  Type another, then pause.  How to end this?  I suppose it’s easy.  I need to go clean my daughter’s room and while she is gone, send stuff away she never plays with.  Plus I need to build drawers under her closet and attempt to put part of the window back together.  Oh, and paint.  Lot’s of paint.  So that is how I will sign off, by begging off because I have to go and work while it is still light, moderately sunny, and I feel the desire.  There is something in the sun that makes me want to work.  So I will.

Adieu.