Maya's gone. She left last week for her six-week summer stay with her BD & Sanne. I'm ok, but I caught a case of the blahs when she got on that plane. I've been trying to pretend that I feel fine, but haven't shaken the blues yet.
Mina took Maya's departure hard this summer. It took her a few days to feel better. One night last week she sat on the stoop of our apartment and didn't scooter around the courtyard like I had suggested. Our neighbor John came home and I heard Mina say to him, "Hi John. Maya's gone." He said, "I'm sorry, Mina." She said nothing more.
She and I rode our bikes down to the beach as soon as I got off work today. Mina's mastering her $10 garage-sale bike. She held it down on the sidewalk, hair flowing out the sides of her helmet. She looked at me and squealed and flashed face-full smiles. And I felt like I was running an old film reel of our memories as it was happening. Slow-motion, my baby girl mastering her bike, Summer 2007. We locked our bikes on the bluffs and trekked down the Montana stairs; strode across the parking lot and quietly, simultaneously kicked off our shoes at the edge of the sand. We wove around sea gull tracks and squinted against the six o'clock glare on the water. The tide came up and buried our feet. We let it splash all up on our clothes and held hands.
Power to the Peachful
4 hours ago