Wyoming
I see them slipping away, my hands outstretched, fingers grasping for them, and my fingertips graze their long brown hair as they spin on their heels and turn from me. My teenagers have dates now, competitions, jogging buddies, ice cream meet ups. Yesterday I met a young person, a boyish smile, about to meet my daughter at miniature golf. He shook my hand, and I had to suppress a laugh. If I were him, I’d have been afraid of Madeline. She is beautiful, impatient with inefficiency, and currently moves through the world with the certainty of someone who has not yet been contradicted. Good luck, kid.
When she walked toward him, she didn’t look back for a wave or a nod. She smiled and said, “Ready?” to him, and I pretended not to stare. I remember the two-year-old at the pre-school art show who didn’t let me put her down, and somehow between then and now she became a person who introduces herself first, a person who studies a map once and then never gets lost.
My teenage girls wrinkle their noses at my frizzy hair, my dated jeans, my old lady feet, and the glasses slipping down my nose. Madeline was mad at me most of the spring. They take my phone and laptop and create graphic flyers or iMovies in what would take me…1,000 times as long. They read about neuroscience for fun; they tell me something is “buns” or “chud” and I nod and Google their slang.
I spent years working toward this independence, and now they can board a flight alone, figure out a ride, schedule and carry out plans. “I love traveling alone more than anything,” Madeline recently said, and instead of asking what the hell she was talking about, I found myself studying the new freckles across her nose.
Rebecca is usually gone now, and most of it sounds exciting. Speech and debate meets, cross country pasta parties, and someone’s mother wanted to take three of them to a movie. Now that’s a move. I’m going to borrow that one soon. I’d pay to spend time. I would. When all is aligned and we’re both home, we might lace up tennis shoes and jog together. She could easily pull ahead, but she doesn’t. I look at her long stride and light footprint. Same brown waves. Same height. Same hurry. Arms pumping, legs pumping, fingers in a fist. She learned to outrun me years ago, but sometimes she keeps pace for my comfort.
Even so, I’ve been feeling a little left behind lately, squirrelled up in my office with a thousand cups of tea and books, old friends that don’t judge me. So I booked a summer vacation for us, scoured the Internet and then said yes. I had typed, “best national parks near airports.” One morning, after days of comparing itineraries, I closed my laptop and said to my spouse, “I think we should just go.” We weren’t going to have a trip, and now we are. We will go to Wyoming, 1,400 miles away. We will rent bear spray and a cooler and pack cheese sandwiches, ice water, oatmeal bars. The snow will have just melted, even though it’s July. We will hike rocky lakeshores and glacier-carved canyons. We will walk by cushions of moss, blooms of yellow and purple, pink stalks, and tiny Alpine Forget-Me-Nots. They’re in full bloom now, but later their blue will fade to pink and they’ll return to earth. Wyoming, who are you? How big are you and how small will you make us feel? We will wonder if we will see a bear (Going on a bear hunt!) the entire time, but we will not. We’re not afraid (we are).
The girls will bring bear whistles and notebooks; the Wi-Fi on their phones won’t work. They will resort to word games. They will race each other. They will work on their tans at times, strike odd poses with pursed lips in selfies, and then play Bananagrams at night and argue about how to spell.
Preparing for this trip has had me flipping through my endless scroll of photos, and one image sticks out. My spouse and I had driven to Indianapolis to take the girls to the Children’s Museum. While Rebecca is peering at a dinosaur, I’m gripping my coffee cup like it’s a lifeline, and my eyes are unfocused. Madeline wasn’t sleeping through the night, and my head constantly buzzed. I remember wanting one uninterrupted night of sleep. Looking at that picture now, I just wish that woman had known that someday she’d miss even that moment. Would I change places with the thirty-something me back then for a few more sips of their baby-ness, their plumper cheeks, their hands gripping my legs, greeting me at pickup with “Mom!”? I would indeed.
But I can’t stop this. I want to stick my hand out and interrupt time like it’s water flow, cup it and sip it slowly, but I know I can’t. They’ll be gone soon. Madeline reminds me of this when she wants me to get in the neighborhood pool with her. “Mom! Come on! You only have four more years with me!”
She knows all my pressure points, all my red buttons. Both of them can read my face quicker than anyone else. They can hear my responses before they come out of my mouth, they tell me. I open my mouth and Rebecca says, “I know. Sunscreen.” I can’t decide if it’s predictability or intimacy. Maybe they’re the same thing.
And that’s what Wyoming is for, a pocket of time. One of our last summers, one week where nobody is rushing off to meet anyone else. The girls will charge ahead of me with their bear whistles, no longer reaching for my hand but still expecting me to be there. I’ll watch them disappear around the pine trees ahead of me, slower now, carrying the snacks. And I’ll follow, not hearing their words anymore, only their laughter.
About the Author
Jamie Wagman is a Professor of History and Gender Studies at Saint Mary’s College in South Bend, Indiana. Her creative work has also appeared in Burningword Literary Journal, Newfound, and Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues, among other places.
