Leaving Utah last September was one of the saddest times of my life, saying goodbye to our daughter Lily. That little airport in the middle of nowhere, so desolate. Sitting in the lobby waiting for the airport workers to open it, no one around, just a guy sweeping the floors. Late afternoon light, end of summer. End of everything, it seemed.

But here I was again months later to surprise Lily for her 18th birthday, to arrive unannounced with my carry-on full of presents and whisk her away from her dorm room to our rental. I imagined what it would be like as I drove from St. George to Cedar City with the sun setting behind me, a fading red coal. Remembering the scene in the airport saying goodbye and why that was so sad. Does sadness get harder as we get older, do we feel it more? I do.

And it’s hard to put words to, but I’ll try. The sad that gets me most is rooted in loss. It’s existential. A reminder of how brief everything is in the scheme of things.

I had gone down to Utah in September for a parent’s weekend at her new school. We skipped the last day of activities and went to the nearby canyons instead, just outside Zion national park. Lily played music for me in the car and the weather was perfect. It was a small moment but one I’ll always remember.

But when we got to the day I had to leave it seemed like the day was defined by my going. I should have known better and flown out in the morning but instead we had the whole afternoon to think about it. I got to the airport early and sat there feeling sorry for myself listening to the playlist I’d made for her, fiddling with my phone.

The goodbye weighed hard because Lily was 17 and had left home earlier than any of us imagined. Her return was unknown, too. She had been through a lot in the span of a year and it felt like a key chapter of her childhood had been torn out. She had gotten good treatment and there was some solace in that, but we had all lost a lot of time together too.

I chewed on that as I drove across the desert and the dark came on. Dawn texted, Lily was having a bad day. Maybe I should let her know I’m here in Utah? I’d planned to wait until her birthday but maybe I should see her tonight.

So I texted Lily and asked how she was doing, heard she was feeling down. Would she like anything from the Natural Grocers down the street? Which confused her. And then I got on the phone with her and spilled the beans—I’m here in Utah!—and she broke into a sob, a happy sob, and I met her outside the student union with some mushroom-based cola drink she likes, and we drove up the mountain to an overlook and parked the car.

You could see the lights of the town from up there and the stars twinkling the same. She told me about her day and I gave her an apple, and we sat there taking it all in. Then I dropped her back off and drove to my rental and she texted I love you so much and I said the same.

So what of this life, what’s my advice? How to make peace with its cruel-seeming briefness? All you can do is live it.

Categories: parenting, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, Memoir, parenting