A New Day Dawning
August 14, 2001
7:19 p.m.
The page number at the bottom of my word processor reads 534. This is a lot of pages. Still, I am not done. I expect the book will be upward of 580 pages before it is done. Truthfully, I'm not really quite done with these 534 pages, seeing as I still want to read through the last ten or so and smooth rough edges.   Venus was beautiful in the black sky when I woke up this morning. I looked at it, remembering a morning nearly thirteen years ago when I looked out at another dark sky. Brigid was maybe three hours old that morning. Today is her first day at Middle School. She is very nervous. She is not as nervous as Lisa is, of course, but this is nothing to write home about. I would be nervous, but these two are hogging all of our family's allotment of tension, and so I am left nothing but resigned patience. This, I guess, is a father's lot when it comes to daughters. We've done the open houses, though. Lisa's drilled Brigid on her student number and the number of her bus. She's almost memorized her schedule. We've met her teachers and her principal. Pal. I still remember learning the difference between principle and principal was that the principal was your "pal." Jeeze. I remember seventh grade. I do. It really wasn't long ago. Lisa and Brigid sat on the stairs to wait for the school bus, then moved to the front porch. I went out with them for a moment. As promised by the startlingly clear view of Venus earlier, the sky was clear and blue. The air was cool against my skin, the grass vivid green. It was quiet, that early morning quiet like a clean pane of glass. Birds chirped, but their sounds only added clarity. Kids gathered at the corner. "Do you want me to go with you?" Lisa said. "No." Brigid gave her mother a tentative hug, then went to join the rest of the kids. I stood on the porch with Lisa, shading my eyes against a very bright sun. "I'm so nervous for her," Lisa said. She sat on our porch step, cradling her coffee that is sweetened to a shade of brown closer to white than to chocolate. "I know you are." We stood there together. A couple of the kids threw a football. Brigid made it to them. I have no idea what she said, or what they said to her. Maybe she will tell us when she gets home today. Or maybe this will be one of the details that will fade into the rest of the day. I don't know. I put my hands on Lisa's shoulders and rubbed for a minute. "Well," I said. "I'm going back downstairs to get some work done." "Okay." I leaned over and kissed the top of her head, squinted against the sunshine, then turned and went in.  Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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