Our daughter made it home from college yesterday evening. She slipped in between blizzards on roads miraculously dry, considering the fiercely wicked early storms we’ve had so far this year.
Hiram helped her haul in more bags, baskets and boxes than I thought her small car could hold. “It was a tight fit,” she agreed, “but I have a lot of sewing to do over Christmas break.”
We old fogies went to bed, but our daughter stayed up, quiet as she’s always been. I didn’t hear a thing as she crept around the house for hours, her body accustomed to the night owl college culture. This morning she’s fast asleep, the light pouring through the six big windows onto her calm face, clothes and fabric cluttering the floor of her room.
Signs of her are scattered throughout the house. A sewing machine in need of repair sits in Hiram’s workshop. Face wash and toothpaste litter the sink in the upstairs bathroom, while the medicine cabinet shelves are empty. Her late supper dishes are stacked in the dishwasher.
Most puzzling of all are the four thread spindles next to the cookie jar this morning, along with an eye-watering, evil-looking concoction in a large measuring cup. Either Anne’s into mixing fairy tale potions, or she’s whipping up one of her homemade cleaning and hygiene products.
This will be our last Christmas break with her, and every sign of her Anneness is dear to me. Her little girl creations – the doll clothes fashioned from Kleenex, the mish-mash stews of leaves and grass and berries, the Barbie zip line stretching from upstairs window to tree, the bungie-jumping action figures in the laundry chute – are ancient history.
My daughter has become a lovely young woman. Her creative streak is as much a part of her as ever, leading her to ideas and dreams beyond anything I could ever imagine. Clutter is part and parcel with the creative world she inhabits. So this Christmas break, I’m determined to enjoy her presence instead of being annoyed by her clutter. When she finally wakes up and explains what’s in the measuring cup, I’ll let you know, unless I die from eating a poisoned apple before I have the chance.
Welcome home, Anne. I’m so glad you’re here.
