When Jenny Leaves

 
Tightly zipped, the luggage sits in back.

Her dad slams the hatchback shut. The world is gray and wet

water dewed on windows, a gray bank of clouds to the east with faint light behind. The sky is clear, he says. It will not rain today. In the front seat She’s tidy, zipped, and ready, alert, alive. Coffee at hand. Off to her other life. “Dad, what are your goals for 2025?” Behind them, her mom sleeps on a bunched up coat, or tries. Water streams on gray windows-- grief on a gray soul. Is there no way to keep her here boxed in a white farmhouse, like a caged parakeet chirping, to bring me joy? Tell me about your research, he says. In the dark, her voice is light And force and fire. The only inputs you take in are integers, she says. He nods. He sees Not the complex math but the daughter, the calling, the joy, the gifts the beautiful chosen life. Beneath the stunning wooden beams Of PDX They hug goodbye and smile. Go, my child. This is the route for you, this gate right here. Go far. Under a wide dramatic sky They drive home, thoughtful, sad, proud. Bright sunlight all around.

Our youngest daughter, Jenny, is in her fourth year at Virginia Tech in pursuit of a PhD in mathematics. She came home for a week over Christmas.

Jenny and Paul on the skybridge.

Just before we said goodbye.

The Portland airport was recently renovated, and the result is incredible, especially the new wood ceiling made of locally sourced Douglas fir.