Heat pours into my face as I open the oven door. With a mitt on my right hand, I reach in and push the tip of a sharp knife halfway into the thickest part of the salmon.

I’m a mediocre cook at best, but I know the center of a perfectly baked salmon should have a look of slight translucence. As though a glimmer of light is trying to shine through it.

“Just a couple more minutes,” I say to myself. I close the oven door, lean against the counter, take a sip of Merlot, glance out the window, and get lost in thoughts.

The Salmon! I turn to open the oven back up, pull the pan out, and plunk it down on the stovetop. Argh. Nothing glimmering about this orange, flaky lump.

I love salmon. But I never seem to get it quite right.

I feel the tears begin to build. Again. I know they’re not really about the salmon, though.

Photo by Haythem Gataa on Unsplash

Forging ahead, I wrap a bundle of asparagus with damp paper towels and quick steam it in the microwave for four minutes like I always do. Then I pull the pot of rice from the burner and slice the Naan bread into triangles.

But the next task of calling my husband and kids to dinner freezes me.

Nearly two weeks ago, we moved our oldest of three into a college dorm room for her freshman year. She seemed amazingly calm the entire day. Other than slicing my finger on the glass edge of a picture frame, things went as well as could be expected.

The futon my husband and I had assembled at home fit perfectly beneath the loft. The 5′ x 7′ area rug from Bed, Bath, and Beyond fit nicely by the window.

A few hours and a bazillion Command Strips later, her half of the dim, claustrophobic room was transformed into a cozy home-away-from-home with white lights, photographs, yellow accent pillows, towel hooks, and a storage crate stocked with pretzels, granola bars, goldfish crackers, apples, and hot cocoa mix.

But inevitably the time came to say goodbye and drive away.

I’d been feeling anxious about this monumental moment since her sophomore year. All summer leading up to it, I kept reminding myself that the cycle of loving and launching is what we parents sign up for. Yes, it will be hard. But she’ll be OK. And I’ll be OK. We’ll all be OK. 

Even so, wrapping my arms around her and driving away from the girl who used to spend hours at her little wooden art table in the porch making presents for the rest of us broke my heart into a million pieces.

Like the masses of mamas and papas who’ve traveled this wild terrain before me, I’ve stayed busy and distracted while adjusting to this “new normal.”

• I went out for eggs and pancakes with my husband who is missing his little girl, too, of course.

• I did some final back-to-school shopping with my almost 14-year-old. While missing her big sister, she is also thoroughly enjoying the extra bathroom counter space.

• I’ve watched several episodes of Impractical Jokers with my 16-year-old. He’s scheduled to take the ACT next Saturday. I want to swat away the notion of him, too, leaving us in a couple of years.

• One night, in an effort to sort of re-group, I coerced the three of them to play Scrabble with me just before bed.

• I worked on my new quirky local book project (and actually sent it off to the publisher. Woot! Woot!)

• I prepared for a meeting with a new client.

• I prepared meals to bring to my parents.

• I’ve taken lots of walks.

• I even sorted through a big box of random socks that’s been growing for the past three years. Can you believe I found 67 matches?!

In the midst of keeping occupied, though, an emptiness lingers. I keep expecting to hear her side of the garage door open. I keep expecting her to walk through the door.

Especially right before dinner time.

Whether it was cross-country or track practice during the school year or nannying this past summer, she usually returned right when dinner was nearly ready. And when she did, she’d often burst through the door with an announcement of some kind. “You guys, guess what!”

I knew I’d miss that and so many other things about her. But I didn’t realize how deeply until right now.

Like most any young adult adjusting to college life, she’s faced a few challenges. But overall, things sound like they’re going pretty well, according to the occasional morsels we’ve received from her via text.

I look down at my phone to re-read her most recent morsel. It was in response to the mile-long novella of a text I had sent to her the day before. She wrote: “I don’t really have time to respond to this rn but I will later! It’s been really fun tho and busy.”

Re-reading her words, I feel a glimmer of light—a slight translucence—trying to shine through me. She’ll be OK. And I’ll be OK. We’ll all be OK.

As for the salmon, we’ll have to settle for overly opaque this time.

Oh well, nothing a big dollop of sour cream can’t fix, I convince myself.

”DINNER!!!!!!!”

I’m Julie Jo Severson, mom to three teens, freelance writer, editor, and co-author of HERE IN THE MIDDLE: Stories of Love, Loss, and Connection from the Ones Sandwiched in Between. 

This blog, Carvings on a Desk, is where I reconnect with my own voice swirling around in the middle. Read other recent stories.

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