Fruit Cake

bus

It's never been easy, this mother-daughter dynamic. I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but I often elicit a kind of snappishness from her, and it doesn't feel good, especially given that we will soon be separated by a continent and an ocean.

Discovering we were without water this morning definitely added to the frazzled feeling of our trip to the bus depot. We were all unwashed, inadequately caffeinated, and in need of a bathroom. But still.

Then came the part where the tickets have been checked, the suitcases are on the bus, and it's time to say good-bye. Best to do it quickly, I suppose. We hugged. And stood there.

"I guess it's time to get on the bus," said my daughter.

"Yeah," I said. "It's not much fun just standing here, prolonging it."

"No, just take a minute," said my daughter's boyfriend. We hugged again and stood there some more.

“Oh, is this like the way you explained fruit cake?" my daughter asked her boyfriend. "That kind of thing?"

"Exactly," he said.

Okay. I sorta get it. Fruit cake. Not so much about enjoyment, but custom and ritual.

Also, no one quite knows what to do with it.

And it's heavy.

But we give and we accept it nonetheless, both the burden and the gift.

They boarded. I waved to the silhouettes on the bus.