Fare well, my little girl…turn your nose up to the adult world

Her pointy nose got me since she was a month old. My finger marvelled over and over it.

Where did she get this perfect nose, I wonder, looking at her asleep next to me in my massive bed.

A full 21 years later, she is sleeping “for the last time with mommy” – not that she ever does sleep with me – but we are both, I suppose, “freaked out”, because tomorrow when the sun comes up she is moving to Cape Town.

And that’s a lifetime away. I am losing my daughter. Never really losing her, I suppose, because “my plane ticket back to you is booked”.

But losing her, I suppose. Stumbling into my room with a “do you want coffee? Why do I even ask”, will now happen on “visits”.

Knowing every nuance of her life is lost now.

She’ll forget to tell me about “my tummy was so sore but I forgot it’s That Time of the Month” and “Did you find my missing sock in your washing?”

I hear her wise words during one of the “goodbye” parties on my stoep: “I had to do the adult thing…”

Yes, Emma, you’re an adult now – I suppose. And I accept, I suppose.

We’ll Zoom and I’ll see her, but she would’ve dealt with the nitty-gritties of life when we talk. I don’t have to clear her head any more.

I can tell you about my empty nest syndrome; my heartbreak; my loneliness waiting when the sun sets tomorrow.

But my heart is bleeding for her. She’s the one taking on the world.

She’s the one who must now weather wave after wave of sh*t washing over her without mommy covering her with a woolly blanket and a “don’t you worry, I’m here”.

She’s the one who is going to stress over the next meal; the coffee that’s run out; “Damn, I forgot the washing powder”.

And I won’t know about those stresses. Because I have the luxury of mourning her. Her absence.

She has no luxuries: she’s dealing with life – like a grown-up.

And I wish I can say: “Welcome to our world.” But I don’t want you to get lost in shopping, rent and CV joints.

I want you to stay my little girl. Turn your nose up to the adult world.

Carine Hartman.

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