It’s like standing at the end of security in the vast corridor of an airport watching her go through the line. She has given the last hug and ‘good bye’. She doesn’t need to look back. She is grown up. Off to college. Resolute around each roped off security line.

There the four of us stand peering.
Awkward.
We are now 4/5’s.
Reflecting.

Dad and mom frame each turn, mental camera snapping:
Through the line.
Past the security officer.
Shoes off. Bag down.
Through the scanner.
smaller and smaller…
Shoes back on…
Is that the bag back over her shoulder?
Her size diminishing…
She doesn’t look back
What a strong kid.
Fading…
Out of sight…

The whole event.
Inexorable.

Pause…

And then a long hug on our end and we say, “Well she’s gone.” But, of course, she’s not. Her size has been diminished in our sight but she is not diminished. She’s just as life-size as she was before.

We simply cannot see her.

But, others can.

As sure as she faded from our sight she came into the sight of others.

That’s what it’s like.