by Tori Taff, of Babybloomr

As I slowly back out of my parents’ driveway (after ostentatiously making a show of double-checking seatbelts and adjusting mirrors because I know they’re watching), I tell the girls to “Wave!” and we vigorously waggle our arms and blow big sloppy kisses as we head down their quiet street and turn towards the direction of the interstate. I pause right before we round the corner, staring into the rearview mirror at the two small white-haired figures standing next to each other, smiling and waving back at us. I will myself to remember this, to freeze this picture in my mind like a photograph that I’ll download onto my laptop when I get home. Right before I look away, I watch them drop their arms to their sides and start walking, carefully holding each other’s hand, back into their house.

I can’t quite see Mom’s face now, but I don’t have to; I know the expression on it by heart and I can read it in the way her body kind of droops slightly before she squares her shoulders and follows Daddy back inside. I know how to read that familiar gesture, it speaks volumes to me. It’s saying that goodbyes make her sad, that the house is going to be too quiet (well yeah, I bring two kids and three dogs into it when we visit), and that she isn’t really going to totally relax until she gets a phone call from me 7 hours from now saying that we have arrived back home in Tennessee, safe and sound. There’s a tinge of regret I think I can read there too, because it’s in her nature to regret– she’ll be momentarily re-thinking things she may have said, and things she didn’t. She’ll be wondering whether or not we ate enough breakfast to hold us, and wishing she had poked a little more fresh fruit down Charlotte, who “needs it.” She always gives me her standard goodbye which consists of taking my face into her two hands, peering intently into my eyes while warning me ‘not to push myself too hard’, and then whispering into my ear while kissing my cheek, “I love to see you come, but I hate to see you go!” Now she’ll go back into the house, make one more sweep of the place looking under beds and in drawers to make sure we didn’t leave anything (we always do) before she strips the beds and starts the laundry. That will keep her busy for a while. Mama stoically accepts that missing us is just part of the package, that it goes hand in hand with the pleasure of the visit. But it’s the part she hates.

Daddy, as always, is less complicated but just as sincere. His smiling goodbye includes a hug and kiss while he claps me on the back and says, “Ok, baby girl.” He’s already visually inspected the car as I was loading it, noting the tire pressure, asking about the gas mileage and whether or not I had filled it up because if I hadn’t, he knows the station that currently has the lowest prices. And then he gives me directions, though I already know where it is. He points out that I have a scratch near my front bumper, and says that they have these little bottles of paint at WalMart in the auto section that can touch that up, no problem. He picks up the dog beds that I have dropped on the driveway beside the car and holds them for me, waiting until I finish placing the suitcases in the trunk and work things around to make room for them. We both know that if he doesn’t at least look like he’s loading the car too, Mama will scold him– “Don, help her!” The fact that he is 92 and has had two heart attacks does not in any way change the image in her mind of the right thing to do when their daughter is lugging something heavy– hello, he’s supposed to pick it up and carry it for me. Daddy and I exchange conspiratorial looks as he hands me the dog beds and then picks up something else to hold. We’ve got this down to a science.

I drive down the service road and merge into the busy noon traffic. It’s a little drizzly, but the morning weather report said it won’t really rain until evening, so we’ll probably have an easy drive. I’ve got enough gas to get us to West Memphis which will probably be about the time we’ll want to get something to eat and the dogs will need to be let out. I reach for my cell phone to give Russ a call and tell him we’re on our way, ought to get there around dinner time, maybe we’ll just pick something up when we hit town. The girls both have their iPods in their ears, so they are talking a little louder than necessary. Charlotte is fussing at Phoebe to “Lie down, already,” while Madi reminds me that we didn’t give Thea her Dramamine, and if we don’t stop at Walgreens and get some we will probably be sorry. (She’s right– we didn’t stop and we were sorry.) My head is already in Nashville, and as I click on the cruise control and settle Pip into my lap, I’m making mental notes about all of the things we need to get done before school starts next week and wondering if the Master Gardener next door remembered to water my garden. Another visit home to Arkansas is over, and it’s time to get back to real life.

Except…

One of these days, dear God let it be later rather than sooner, I am going to get a phone call from one of my sisters. I will know immediately that something is wrong by the way they say my name. They will be calling from the emergency room, or the heart hospital or Mom and Dad’s house. There will be a frightening, but controlled and detailed report about what is happening and I will immediately start figuring out how to get there as fast as I can. I will be scared and praying under my breath while I talk to Russ and make plans for the girls and throw things into the car. My mind will race, my stomach will hurt and my heart will be aching. I’ll try to stop shaking so I’ll be safe to drive.

Or maybe the phone call will tell me I don’t have time to get there. It’s already over. Then it will be all about making arrangements and carrying out their wishes and notifying friends. We’ll gather from all over the country at Mom and Dad’s house, there will be lots of crying, and laughing, and telling stories, and grieving with my family. We’ll comfort each other by saying things like, “We were so blessed to have them as long as we did.” And at some point, after all the details are settled and contingency plans and decisions have all been made, another visit home to Arkansas will be over and it will be time to get back to real life.

Except…

The next day I will be waking up and drawing breath in a world that for the first time in 50-plus years won’t have one of my parents in it. I can’t even begin to imagine what that will feel like. I know it is inevitable. I know we are SO living on borrowed time with them. I know that they are secure in our love and their faith, and will face the end of their lives with the same humor, courage and dignity that they have always shown. I know that they haven’t been perfect parents, that all of us bear some scars and some hurts that were a result of being raised by two human beings with scars and hurts of their own. But somehow they managed to produce six children that grew into productive, healthy, functioning adults (shut up, we are too) that love each other and love the two of them. Isn’t that more than enough? Isn’t that like, a MIRACLE? The adult in me is at peace with all of it, grateful for what we still have and realistic about what will come. But the child in me, the baby of the family, secretly refuses to believe that it will ever really happen. Mom and Dad will always be there, sitting in their cozy house waiting for us to get home so we can eat, or standing side by side waving goodbye as we leave them. It’s embarrassing, but true. I am fundamentally, at my core, not ready to let them go.

I will when I have to, I know, I know. My parents have taught me well and I want them to be proud of me. Of course, they’ve had the advantage of a lifetime of practice, a lifetime of watching us all come and go. They’ve already learned what I am still trying to accept, and I see it in their faces every time I pull out of their driveway and head for home– “You can do this. It’s hard, but it’s OK. Don’t worry about us, we’ll be fine.” And they’re right, as always. We’ll all do what people who love each other do when they lose someone, and we’ll make it through together, blah blah blah. But regardless of how blessed I have been, and how grateful I am for the ‘extra’ time we’ve had with them, it’s not going to make it one bit less excruciating when it’s my turn to say goodbye. That’s the bittersweet message of the rearview mirror snapshot, I guess: It’s easier to be the one leaving than the one that is left.