The Last Night You Are Sixteen

The last night you are sixteen, you are a cross between a ball of yarn and a ball of lightening. Complex, crackling, tangled, tense, able to get lost for hours, able to explode into life.

The last night you are sixteen, you can't be put into words. A poem being written. A painting yet to dry. A departure without a defined destination.Your room is your cocoon, where the music slips out loudly from the crack under the door and footsteps can be heard of secret solo dances. Earbuds in, your private world, but sometimes you share a glimpse of your playlist with me, like a drink of water from a hidden well, your songs more playful and passionate than your public persona lets loose.

The last night you are sixteen, you and your mother have secrets. You have shows. You have inside jokes. You share furtive whispers. You are part of the secret sisterhood, and men aren't allowed. You have secret wars, as well; ways of hurting each other's feelings that a father doesn't understand. And, later, ways of making up. Usually, these ways involve shopping.

The last night you are sixteen, I wish I could say that you have forgiven your little brother for...well, for being born. But not yet. Maybe soon. I'm thinking soon. I'm hoping. That will be a good day. You really do have so much in common. Not least having to grow up with me.

The last night you are sixteen, you are a space traveler. You transport between worlds. You have friends at school, friends at dance, friends at church. You are the same to all, but like a diamond, you may show a different face depending on the angle of the light around you. You are lovely. You are loyal. You are thoughtful. You are kind. You are funny. Sweet, sharp, silly and serious. There are your "big girls" and your "little girls," a band of young women you have taken under your wing, the unofficial matriarch of a motley crew. You don't tell them what to do; indeed, a mark of your gang is that they resist being stuck with anyone's label gun. But then, you show them what to do. You don't know you are a leader, but space changes shape around you, and whether you know it or not, you change your world.

The last night you are sixteen, you present your day to me as a drama and a dance. You have danced for so long, I'm not sure you are even aware you do this. Taking center stage in our living room, you pronounce judgment on those who made you angry with a flourish. With a kick, you review your funny moments, laughing at your own jokes, replaying a scene with your friends. With a twirl, you review the ups and downs. You aren't selfish or insecure, but you do demand my attention. But then, you already have it.

The last night you are sixteen, you can still be a child. Sound asleep in a rainstorm, unplugged from the whole world. Baking cookies, and expecting me to eat them. Expecting, demanding, knowing, or rather, simply assuming as an unquestioned fact of the world, it's dad's job to take care of it when there's a bug in the room, or a shelf you can't reach, or a joke that needs an audience. And so it is.

The last night you are sixteen, you can be an old soul. You know teachers have egos, preachers have personal lives, politicians have pockets to fill. Whole systems get bought and sold. It's enough to make you cynical, and on a bad day, you are. But on a good day, you take it all in, you sigh and you give a knowing shrug, and you move on with the business of loving the world bit by bit into a better place. And that's how you move mountains.

The last night you are sixteen, you drive here and there. You don't think about it any more, this freedom, this far-from-homeness. I think about it, from the time you walk out until you come back in the door. But you've got the music playing, and places to go, things to do, people to see. You've worked a little, made a little money, spent a little more. You think about things like that now. What you'll do. How you'll make money. Maybe I wish you wouldn't, or didn't have to, but that's the world. Sometimes you worry. I worry about how you worry. I worry about the decisions you'll make. Not the ones you'll make to do something wrong; those are few enough, and far between. No, I worry about the ones you make to do nothing at all, to not attempt what you don't think you can do, or don't think you can do perfectly. You demand so little from others, remind them so patiently that none of them have to be perfect to be loved. I hope you'll listen to yourself preach. I hope however far from home you get, you carry enough home in your heart, you never truly feel unloved. If you forget, come back in my door. 

The last night you are sixteen, you are waiting in the wings. A nervous energy fills your frame, but it isn't fear. It's readiness. You've rehearsed enough. The lights are on. The audience is seated. The music is about to begin. You really are a dancing queen, every bit of seventeen. I fear my time is up. I've done what I could, and all too soon my job will be to let you go. But wait, not yet. There's time for one more hug.