Long Slow Drink of My Daughter

I received an unexpected gift yesterday from an unexpected source.

The woman who cleans at the gym where I work out some mornings is remarkably cheerful and kind. She smiles at passersby and always has time to ask how we are doing, if we are very tired of winter, that she is glad to see us. I am grateful for all that she does to make our gym clean. Her kindness puts me at ease, makes me feel welcome and part of a community.

Yesterday, as I was slathering oil on my body and she was mopping, we got to chatting about our children - we both have 12 year olds. "My son keeps me busy. He is going to G this summer to stay with my relatives there. I will miss him but enjoy more time for myself." she said.

"E is almost 12. Such an interesting age!" I responded.

We continued with our ablutions in silence then she spoke again, "I had a daughter too," she told me softly, "She died when she was 16."

The locker room became very still after she told me this. I saw only her, her sparkling eyes, wide smile, heard the swish of the mop. She looked down. "I am very sorry," I told her. "Yes, it was ten years ago now."

The space between us shrank as the impact of her words settled right behind my breast bone. In that moment, I was M, she was me, with no distance between us. Two small vulnerable mothers.

I thought of E's soft cheeks and wide eyes and how unimaginable it would be to not be able to touch her or look into her eyes again. To loose my dreams of her future.

I felt all the little worries, doubts, small angry thinking drain out my brain and body. I looked at E that morning, really looked, at the rosy flush in her cheeks, those impossibly long eyelashes, the pug nose I like to squeeze. I drank her down like a cold glass of water after a long hot hike. I thanked M for giving me the gift of presence, gratitude, and humility; the long slow drink of my daughter on that early spring day.