Distance
My dad picks me up in front of the house at 4:15 a.m. There’s ice at the edges of the driveway and it crunches under my feet. We’re both yawning when I crawl into the car.
“Morning, Pops.”
We chat off and on during the 40-minute drive to the airport, catching up on life. He fills me in on his work and what’s new and I tell him about where I’m going and the work I’m doing. I have such a strange sense about these conversations with my dad because these days I’m also seeing myself having similar conversations on the other end with my older kids, except in those conversations I’m the dad, I’m the one who wants to know about their lives. There’s something about being a parent to young adults that gives me a completely different viewpoint on my own parents and how they must see me.
There’s a closeness between a parent and their child but there’s also this indefinable distance. What is that distance and where does it come from? Is it because your love for your child will always be so much greater than you can describe, something that so outweighs any closeness you might achieve? I don’t know if I can even adequately write about it.
It’s still dark when Dad drops me off at the airport and says “I love you” and drives away, and then I’m checking in and going through security and finding my gate. Trying to stay awake, looking forward to the three-hour nap on the plane. I sleep so well on planes, especially in the early morning.