The wedding was beautiful. I’d say I’ve never been more proud of my son, but that may be inaccurate; suffice it to say that he was the happiest person alive, which will continue to lend me a warm glow and gentle smile for some time to come.
His sister and I helped them get their laundry done and bags packed while friends and relatives arrived to decorate their car with the requisite Just Married art and tin cans. They left late in the afternoon to drive to Sacramento from where they caught a plane to Hawaii this morning. They even upgraded their seats to first class!
The daughter and I needed to escape a too quiet house last evening, so we went into downtown Reno and strolled along the River Walk, which I always enjoy visiting whenever I am here. Familiar as it is to both of us, we nonetheless felt a little lost, as though our bearings had shifted and we weren’t sure of the new heading.
We had a lovely dinner at a spot the son had recommended. Our table overlooked the river, our server was so gracious when we each kept going all teary, and the food as good and as abundant as the son had said it would be. Still, lovely as everything was, something was indefinably missing. Absent. Gone.
We lingered until long after dark, when we could wend our way back along the river, then back to a house that was not ours, and safely head for bed.
Sleep eluded both of us, such that it was a relief when daylight came and we could get up and get busy. We washed linens and remade beds, folded towels, swept and mopped the kitchen floor after our cake-making adventures. We watered plants, closed and locked windows, and cleaned out the refrigerator of anything perishable. We packed our bags and called a cab. It’s time to go home.
And we left a light burning for them.