First week of school

Scents of coffee and smokes linger in my hair. I walked with my daughter across the University campus. Victoria chose a shop nook-abounding.

"The coffee's no good," she said. "But the atmosphere's right."

Not a ground bean drink imbiber anyway, I was fine.

Our conversation flowed. We covered subjects as they appeared, wending betwixt relationships, culture, philosophies, fads. New to our dialogue were forays into living expenses and future ideals and some lessons our hearts have learned.

She's received a promotion at her new job. I'm spending hours on my book. Despite being clueless what our journeys will look like a year from now, we each are eager to travel.

Heading back she took me by cemetery paths. Sunshine dappled ground through ancient pine branches.

"I often come this way," Victoria said. "Not at night," she reassured. Unafraid of the dead; seriously wary of the living.

"You're treading the footsteps of your forebears," I said, and she nodded.

She remembers stories of great-grandparents courting in this graveyard. "I would so come here if I were dating."

I'd mentioned earlier my confidence that a man will appear in due time with honesty and grace to entrust to her. She has learned of giving, so far, but not of receiving. This is her story, the gift its own for my girl to discover.

After we parted I remembered. The ache is ever new. I rather doubt my sense of loss will lessen as years pass, whenever we've shared time together and farewelled.