There was once a time, not long ago, when we’d yell “Love!” as my wife drove the kids away.
First me.
Then them.
Then me again.
Then (faintly) them.
Then once more for good measure I’d cup my hands around my mouth and yell “LOVE!” at the top of my lungs in the direction they were traveling.
Then, in my mind, they’d return the call one last time from the bottom of our street, having picked up on the cadence of our ritual, and knowing that I owed them one.
Pretty sure our neighbors have always thought we’re crazy.
Today my oldest daughter got into a car with an 18-year-old girl to go to the mall with friends.
There was no yelling.
A few moments after they drove off, however, I texted her. “Love.”
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