I watch my daughter climb up into
the large faded-red truck, her water tender,
to drive over the mountains,
carrying the responsibility of burn boss
along with drip torches, tools for a prescribed burn.
Pouring down rain here at home,
unseasonably dry on the other side.
"Be safe" you call out,
as she heads out the driveway,
knowing she can't hear you over the noise of the engine.
Not ready to fully consider
another daughter's desire to rappel
from a helicopter to gain access to a wildfire.
An experience that must be earned.
"Don't give me the details until the season is over,"
you say at the end of a long hug,
even though you have already stoked your
imagination with YouTube clips of shoulder taps
signaling the next rappeler's exit
Not being even remotely prepared
to have more than two years go by without seeing
your grown up little girl who calls Uganda her home.
One trip after another
pushed back by the pandemic.
Grandchildren growing up before your eyes,
pixelated on the computer screen.
"I miss you," implies the hope of a reunion,
and the emptiness of the miles between.
Not thinking too closely
about our oldest who finds joy
in being lifted off high places by the wind
paragliding on the thermals.
"Have fun," you say, wondering what
it must feel like soaring so high,
knowing you eventually need to come down,
but not thinking about that part now.
When you think too closely
about any of this,
you begin to see all the shadows
where the worries like to hide.
And so you pull your chair
into a patch of sun, close your eyes
and feel the warmth on your face.
Letting go
as best as you can.
Maybe that makes you the brave one.
