Eye of the Storm

I sat on the front step watching the lighting storm, feeling the cool damp air pressing down on my body as I hugged my knees to my chest, thinking of my father. He loved storms as much as my mother hated them, and perversely, to annoy her, he would carry me out with him to the screened in porch to watch the wild play of light and noise. In the safety of his arms I never felt a second of fear. I thought about how I had been that rock for my children when they were young, that place of safety. Now when the pain of the world overwhelms them, I am sometimes still the shoulder they find most comforting.

My daughter often echoes back my words to her, “we come from a long line of strong women”. She had to find that place inside herself this week when the child she already loved slipped unexpectedly from her body, for no reason we can discern. She showed no emotion, wanted no comfort, but she cannot hide her hurt from me. She took many days to tell the few people who knew, but in that crazy, perhaps self-destructive way we humans have, she first called the boy, told him about the miscarriage and oh, by the way, I’m breaking up with you. The way she rationalized it to me sort of made sense, but then she’s good at sales. Personally I think her heart is broken and she lashed out (dare I say) hormonally at the nearest target.

We’re all about fresh starts this week, painting her room, tossing out clothes she no longer wears, meeting up with friends she hasn’t seen in a while. She is my first priority, but I can’t help but feel sorry for the boy who doesn’t know what hit him. I could have told him where he was going wrong but that’s not my place and anyway, he would have to have figured it out on his own if he wanted to hold my quicksilver daughter in his hand. She’s painting her room blue with gray trim and amazingly enough, she doesn’t even know why.