I Sleep in My Daughter's Bed

I sleep in my daughter's bed the last night before she moves out of her college dorm. Recalling that night, I feel a sadness that is more profound now than it was then.

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What exactly moves this sadness; where does it seep in from? I sense it should be explored, that it must be listened to. Using the thesaurus, I attempt to name and categorize this ache a little better.

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It is only a small ache, but it carries weight. No, it is not melancholy. Melancholy is the word that had me reaching for the thesaurus. It did not describe my feelings. A better word, one that is a more precise match, is needed. The closest approximations Bartlett's/Roget's offer me are wistful and pensive.

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As a university residence advisor, my daughter merited a larger unit than the standard dorm. While set in the institutional architecture that defines the Gooch dormitory, this upstairs/downstairs dorm had a certain quirky charm. It was angled into one of the corners of the building at an obtuse angle, so symmetry eluded the layout.

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Her bedroom was also larger than that of the other resident advisor with whom she shared the apartment. The other RA is a year younger, so she is now entering the final year of her own undergraduate education. As such, this younger RA is next to inherit the larger bedroom. This is clearly an exciting upgrade, as noted in an email she sent to my daughter upon learning the news:

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"Oh, Amy zee SR sent me an e-mail, and I now have your room. MUAHAHAHHA. *cackle cackle ... i am queen of the worlddddddddd"

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As for the kitchen, while an afterthought and rather small, it was functional. In the bathroom, shower water ran off from the shower area onto the main bathroom floor, but was not overwhelming because it was shared with only one roommate. I was rather fond of the view from her bedroom window. It faced west with a sightline that looked onto a leafy, wooded hillside path. The best bedroom windows, to my taste, do not face the east. Morning daylight awakens me too easily.

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Somehow, I gather that it was not the act of moving out of this particular set of rooms that caused my disquiet. My mood is more likely related to the march of time, as well as a shift in roles and alignments. Once again, I am reminded that I no longer parent a child. No, the daughter is grown and quite capable and has in fact been so for some time.

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Perhaps I also anticipate the loss of Charlottesville as a destination. This city suits me and has captured a slice of my heart. Situated 4 hours and 250 miles to the east of me, traveling there will now probably require some sort of compelling reason. Charlottesville will likely be relegated to a place visited with diminishing frequency.

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The Greek philosopher Heraclitus states that "One cannot step into the same river twice, for the water in which you first stepped has flowed on." Indeed, my wistfulness arises within the heart of this aphorism.

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Carina