You offer me the top of your head to kiss, same as you always do, and I try to say no, I don’t want the top of your head. I want your cheek, your forehead, the tip of your nose. But, then, I flash back and remember that glorious and intense, sweet and concerning moment, minutes after your birth, when I kissed the crown of your head for the very first time. Breathed in the brand new, bloodied scent of you that would imprint on my heart for as long as I will live. Tonight you are leaving, again. You’re a sophomore now, so this shouldn’t sting, the sight of you pulling away in your Honda Civic, gray as the August clouds after this rain, a somber colored car, a serious color, for a vehicle filled with such light – and such love – my youngest daughter. You are nearly firmly planted outside of this nest, creating a life and a home of your own with your friends who are your family of choice. There is room for me, still. Though I know my place is not an everyday one. It is a sometimes, though, when you’re hungry, or cold, or just want a warm smile or hug. You know you can always come to me, my beautiful baby girl. The one who brings me so much joy and laughter, who understands dogs and humans and who fights for justice and won’t tolerate nonsense. Unless it’s if your own creation–sings, dances, silly words and phrases, terms of endearment, or caricatures performed out of love and keen observation. The world is your oyster. Crack it open, drink the juice, wear the pearl on a string. It’s as perfectly created and unique as you.