today

So Kalei left today for college and the start of a new life in California. She left like a homeless person pushing a precious shopping cart, carrying on her person as many totems as possible. She wore one layer of Kalei-created clothes: a worn spaghetti strap top dyed dark green along with a gypsy rag-girl skirt fashioned from strips of fabric covered with tiny round mirrors. These she layered with newer store-bought items: black stretch pants that she searched for frantically at 10:30 last night, shin length long brown patterned socks, a good $75 pair of brown walking shoes, and a new warm dark blue sweater that she’s been wearing in Hawaii’s heat since the day we bought it two weeks ago on her 18^th birthday. In her arms she carried a warm maroon coat from Auntie Pua. She had enhanced the coat, as she does all her clothes, sewing on an elegant maroon and fur lined hood which when worn, rises to a point, like some Harry Potter wizard’s hat. On her slim shoulders, she carried a ridiculously heavy backpack with everything she wanted to be sure the airlines would not lose--- including her new white Mac lap top, a peanut butter sandwich Dad made for her, and her old pale green baby blanket, terribly worn, fragile and musty smelling. I offered to gently hand wash and mail it to her, but she doesn’t trust the US Post Office right now either.

Jonah solemnly accompanied her, wearing a beanie and sweatshirt, carrying only his backpack, and toting her three large bags, which contained mostly clothes, a rice cooker, and her little blue sewing machine. Jonah was sweet, compassionate and wise with her late last night as she panicked racing down the last minute packing homestretch: “Packing’s stressful, yeah?… Take a breath, Kalei…Breathe, girl, breathe”. He said he was feeling very protective of her just now. He reminded us how similar-- and different-- it was when he left home, moving into a decrepit UH dorm. “I was so angry I didn’t talk to you guys for like 2 weeks”. “I remember”, Kalei said quietly. Mark later added his recollection that Jonah did not want his help moving into the dorm, did not want us to accompany him on his first day there, although we did for a short time. His last year at home was a rough one for all of us. In the fall, he almost went through with a plan to go live with Grandpa and Grandma in Hilo and finish out his senior year at Hilo High, but reconsidered after his grandparents flew over from Hilo and a family conference on the issue was held. Still he needed to “soil the nest” that final year, and those last months were tense enough that everyone was relieved when he finally found his freedom.

Perhaps girls mature earlier; certainly Kalei was precocious. Curious, bright, observant, sweet and accommodating, she was “mommy’s girl” until about 7^th grade when this remarkable independent renegade spirit emerged with a vengeance, determined to be different. She rebelled early, prematurely, immaturely, pushing lots of limits, and scaring the heck out of us every 6 months, but these crisis (I can see now) brought us (Mark, me, and Jonah) closer, rather than pushing us away from each other. While Kalei stayed the indulged baby in some respects, she matured earlier than Jonah, and became happier and easier to live with during her final year at home. From the day she graduated until today, she seemed to grow rapidly, and became a delight to live with. We still had frequent squabbles and occasional meltdowns, but these did not dominate, and there was increasing cooperation, expressions of gratitude, and actual collaboration as we prepared for her move to college life. We do wonder if our disorganized daughter will be able to handle the myriad of requirements, forms and communication required of her up there. Will she be able to manage her money, multiple bank accounts, on campus accounts and debit cards? She’s come such a long way from where she was even a few months ago, but is that far enough? Time will tell, and faith is for sure required. As one parent in the college online parents network reminded us, be ready for some panicky and despairing phone calls, and for every thing to be just fine by the next phone call a few days later. Just listen, this parent advised, just listen to her. This will probably be, as it has always been, one of the hardest things to do. To listen to our children suffer, to resist the desperate desire to do something, anything, to alleviate their suffering (and ours), to experience and communicate our faith that they have what it takes to work their way through the inevitable obstacles they will encounter.

The last weeks of this summer with Kalei living at home had some amazing moments. Kalei and I actually went shopping together and were happy with the clothes and shoes we purchased at mainstream stores, as opposed to the thrift shops she’s accustomed to trolling. Mother-daughter shopping trips have never been our thing. I have never been a talented shopper, and finding and creating her own clothing became an integral part of her identity, values and art. And, as a very petite slender thing, Kalei had largely given up on finding clothes that fit body and style, relying on her sewing machine to make quick and dirty alterations. I told her it would make me happy to send her off with new underwear, and we miraculously found the kind she favors. A minor melt down followed one discouraging visit to the Macy bra dept where one finds oneself awash in a bizarre sea of under wire, foam and push up cups, most way too big for us little folks. It took two trips, but again, miracle of miracles, we did find satisfactory coverage.

My hair began showing strands of gray, and Kalei, hearing my sighs, encouraged me to use her hair-coloring tonic (“Brunettes! want to drive blonds wild with envy?”). To my surprise, I did. On her birthday, we had a post-shopping lunch at a quiet wooden table overlooking the watercress farm that graces our Aiea suburban jungle. There she told me ("Oh, by the way...") the test came back negative for a diagnosis we’d accepted well over a year ago as an unfortunate consequence of choices made, games played, bones laid. Halleilujah! The weekend before departing, she joined Mark and I in the last row of the Hawaii Theatre balcony for a Steven Stills concert amidst a boisterous crowd of long haired grandmas and grandpas. And in the back seat of the van, on the way to the airport, Kalei and I held hands and cried quietly.

When was the last time she wanted to hold my hand? when she was 10? I clearly remember the last day Jonah, now almost 23, took my hand to hold it as we walked in public—in a parking garage at the mall. I don’t recall the date or his age, but I remember holding my breath, thinking—this is probably the last time he’ll do this. How many times I held the hands of my children, taking their hands and the moment for granted, never knowing there would come a day when I would have to let go Time and relationships slip through our hands like sand and we somehow must learn to loosen our grip on those we love the most.