Marcy, home for Thanksgiving, stands in front of the bathroom mirror. She’s readying herself for a date with Mario, fussing with her hair. She is shining, aglow from within, unflustered even when her curls don’t fall the right way.
I watch her in the mirror. I am filled with love for her, and filled with dread. She’s on a threshold, just as Dad was, and all I can do is stand and let her go. In the end, I couldn’t talk with him about the Big Things any more than Marcy can with Mario.
All the same, we knew exactly what we meant to one another. Love isn’t blind. It’s dumb.