Holding Back the Ocean

Honeybee in a trumpet creeper flower

It is not a small thing to love a child. She sits on the bed's edge as she bends to pack her trunks for college, boxes and bags surrounding her like hounds, eager to do her bidding. I lean against the wall, the carpet like sand under my toes and I feel my legs loosen and shift. Conversation swells between us but my breath surges in ragged gulps, my chest tight, aching. I do not feel old enough to have one child headed to war and another to college. We discuss her brother's deployment in small, careful words, always coming back to easier thoughts such as sheets and towels. My emotions tumble and grind before sifting to pieces at my feet. Tears well but do not fall and I realize with exquisite clarity that I do not know what to feel. I am proud of  his choice but terrified of his options. It is not a small thing to love a child. She pauses in her packing and pulls me close.

I kneel in the garden, my knees thick with mulch and pull. Sliding my fingers down the supple vines, I slowly find the base and begin to yank. Thick white roots pop and snap beneath me as I dig through the soil, my fingers blackened and rough. Trumpet creeper shoots poke from between the plants, the tender vines disguised by rain rich growth. The vines crash and break against the garden's edge, receding only when pulled. I do not regret planting the trumpet creeper and admire the tenacity of a plant with a plan of its own. She will leave as will he, a final contingent in an unwinnable war. I slowly stand and let the shoots roll from my hands. Grass laps at my ankles like the tides and I head back inside to help her pack.