The Drop Off: A Firefly Story

Once Kathleen passed away, I had one singular focus. How do I get Victoria, who was understandably crushed, to the steps of a college emotionally, physically, psychologically, and academically ready to attack the world. I had seven years to get there. Now those seven years had vanished. I stood next to Victoria on the Stanford campus watching my daughter stare into her future with a big smile on her face. The parents were told, rather harshly I thought, that our part of the move-in day’s activities were over. We were free to leave. In my head I could heard their real sentiment, ‘We don’t know where you’re going, but you gotta get up outa here.’

I had thought about this moment a lot over the previous weeks. I knew it held a poignant interaction between Victoria and me. We had been through so much together. I thought there would be a mutual recognition of this right of passage, and the breaking of our unbreakable bond. I could see in Victoria’s face that she too understood the significance of this moment. She was filled with emotion. Victoria turned towards me and gave me a sideways hug and said, “I love you.” She gave me ‘The Sideways Hug.’  You know that half-hearted, embarrassed hug a child gives where they plant the side of their shoulder in your chest and wrap one arm around you for all of three seconds? That’s what she did. And then she kissed my cheek and ran away with a smile on her face. No slow walk with constant glances over her shoulder towards the person who had poured his time, energy, dreams, and love into her. No hesitation. No longing waves. No pretense that she was trepedatious about the new world she was entering. Nope. Victoria sprinted towards the dorm. At the steps of her dorm, she stopped, turned, smiled and waved one last time. And then she was gone.

I stood there in the gaggle of parents … and cried. I used to laugh when parents told me how they cried at this moment. I mean, you know for weeks, months, years even it is going to happen. You want it to happen for them, and for you. So why the tears? Now I knew. I was not ready for the emotional wallop that moment holds. It’s like I was watching the best parts of me walk, no sprint, away. I had given everything. I had stretched myself beyond my limits. I had held her as she lay sick. I consoled her through disappointed and led the cheers for her successes. I stood ready to maim to protect. I tried to demonstrate love, empathy, and forgiveness. Was it enough? Was she ready for what life held for her? Was I ready for life without her?

I didn’t move thinking perhaps if I stood still enough, she would magically reappear and complete the emotional scene in those Hallmark movies. As I stood staring at the door of the dorm another parent threw her arm around me and said, “We need to get a drink.” Eight or nine of us decided to reconvene at the bar in the hotel lobby to reminiscence about the good old days when we complained about that kid who we just saw off. That was the first time I ever drank an Old Fashioned. It just seemed right.

As we talked, I could hear Sinatra over the bar’s speakers,

“It’s quarter to three, there’s no one in the place except you and me. So set ‘em up Joe, I’ve got a little story I think you should know. We’re drinking my friend, to the end of a brief episode. Make it one for my baby, and one more for the road.”

I cried some more. It just seemed right.