I really don’t get it. Why am I so distraught? It’s the natural order of things that one’s child grows up and moves on. At least we hope that’s what they choose to do. There are always people like poor old (my age) Billy P. who still lives with his mother. (Maybe if he’d just change his name to “Bill” the spell would be broken?) But we all know that those people are creepy.
Why, then, do I walk around the house all teary as though my very heart had been ripped from its socket? I knew I’d have a hard time with this, but really …
The first day Lulu was gone I washed five loads of sheets that had accumulated in dark recesses of her room. (Okay, so I haven’t washed them yet, but I did get them as far as the washing machine.) I stripped her bed and aired out the mattress. But then every time I walked past her room and saw the naked bed, I’d fall apart.
It’s not like I’ll never see her again, or that she won’t be back here for a visit. But that’s just it: it will be a visit. As the months go by, I’m guessing this’ll be less and less like home to her. I remember after I left for college when my parents would ask “When are you coming home?” The question made me cranky: “Why do they call it ‘home’? I don’t live in that stupid old place any more. My real home is New York now.”
Of course I’m still looking for my Real Home, but that’s another topic.
Anyway, after passing by Lulu’s abandoned bed one time too many, I couldn’t take it any more. I dug through the linen cabinet to find sheets that actually matched. I’ve never made a bed so neatly in my life. I smoothed every wrinkle. On her pillow I laid a shawl I made for her years ago. I cocked my head this way and that, looking for more wrinkles to smoothe.
Lulu: when you come home your bed will be waiting. I’ll have your covers turned down and a Lindor truffle on your pillow. And look: I’ve even got that cursed electric blanket plugged in for you.
