Page 13 of In a Word, Yes

And Mikey ...Well.

I draw a ragged breath. How strange that I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the mother and child’s tightly locked hands. How fleeting is the stage when our children desire to fold their gorgeous, tiny fingers within the perfect fit of ours. When we can keep them safe. Or at least believe we can. I’ve never, ever pretended to have it all figured out, this mothering thing.

In spite of everything, though, I sense Lucy’s love. What grace. What a thing. Then again, she doesn’t exactly appear burdened by our physical distance to the extent her father and I are.

My heart pinches.

The young dad rests a hand tenderly at the small of his wife’s back, and just like that the four of them are connected. A daisy chain. Is it wrong to want this for Lucy? Good Lord, this unrequited yearning slices deep. Never in my wildest dreams did Iimagine a day when one of my daughters would have to parent her child alone. Or that I’d have no choice but to stand by watching.

I dig out a fresh tissue. Honesty is brutal. Had a part of me hoped I’d arrive to find Lucy still looking for a hand to hold? Not that I wish unhappiness on her—goodness, never, never that. But I suppose I’ve been expecting my daughter to become, I don’t know, disillusioned, I guess, with her quirky little town. But there’d been no sign of that. Not one single speck of a sign.Shoot.

At last, the security officer motions me to his booth. I snag two empty plastic tubs and place them on the conveyor belt. Man, oh man, have I chosen the wrong day to wear knee-high lace-up boots.

***

Hallelujah and amen, I may have worked up a little extra dewiness all over, but never have I been so stinkin’ grateful to be tucked into my little me-sized space on a plane. So grateful, in fact, that I will not complain about a thing for the rest of the day.You can hold me to that promise, Lord.

Starting with my seatmate.

I smile a quick hello to the older woman while she gets assistance from the flight attendant in hoisting her carry-on into the overhead. So what if she’s large-boned and drenched in Shalimar, which means I’ll have a full-on headache by the time I change planes in Dallas? It’s alright. There’d been a time I wore perfume without a second thought. Of course, that was back in the era of stockings and shoulder pads. The latter in which I’d perhaps been the nation’s most enthusiastic participant.

I shudder to think of all my earliest video curricula still circulating out there on YouTube, testifying to every one of my fashion hits and misses.

Thank you, Jesus, for your sovereign wisdom in putting this lovely woman and me together in12E and 12F. I’m sure you haveyour reasons,and you better believe I’ll make it my business to find out why before we land.

But first I’d better respond to at least one of my assistant’s texts while I still have Wi-Fi so she doesn’t think I died. Whatever it’s about, my poor Yvonne—and I always refer to her quite affectionately asmy Yvonne, she’s so, so precious to me—will be pacing her home office like a mama quail. Good thing while I was at All the Feels it occurred to me to get the dear girl some bath salts.

On closer inspection, none of her messages appear as time sensitive as she made them out to be. Except one. A decision I can’t keep putting off.

Ugh.What I really want to say to my publisher is no. No, I wouldnotprefer to extend the fall book tour by another two weeks. No, I wouldnotlike to drive to Huntsville for a signing. Or, for that matter, to “mosey on over to Alpharetta, since it’s not much farther.” On the heels of my three-day teaching event in Maryland? It’s too much. A weighted blanket of exhaustion descends over me just imagining it.

Two rows ahead, a tiny head pops up. Golden, lighter-than-air corkscrew curls veer in every direction like prairie grass. Little Miss now holds a fat blue crayon and evidently has a keen radar for mush-hearted grandmothers. I wink. She returns a coy smile. I duck my head, then snap it back up wearing my silliest grandma expression. Her giggle makes my heart lighter.

I play the silent peekaboo game again, but when I come up, her mother has already coaxed her back into her seat. Shoot.

Beyond my window, the rugged landscape brings to mind that old TV showBonanza. Or a rudimentary picture even I could color. Mentally, I select my own fat crayons. Cornflower for the sky. Burnt sienna for the desert soil and those low, round buttes. Olive for the scrubby fields of sage.

The plane taxis. My mental portrait will have to suffice until next time.

Back to the problem of my publisher’s request. This much Iknow. I haven’t outlived my love for the ministry, but I’ve sure outlasted a whole era of book people. Over time, the familiar faces at BeLoved Books—all those dear, dear friends I brainstormed with, laughed with, and scarfed down barbecue with since as far back as the Clinton presidency—have been succeeded by a new regime. Younger. Hipper.

Do people still sayhip? See, that’s exactly how un-hip I dare not let the newbies know I’ve become. Icannotafford to have those folks thinking I’m on the decline. Even if someday I manage to accept it for myself. Which isn’t today.

I know what I have to do. Delaying any longer won’t change my answer. I’ll say yes. Never mind that it effectively eliminates any fantasy I’d begun entertaining of a surprise return visit to Lucyland for Chase’s birthday.Move on. If wishes were fishes, we’d all have a fry.

Besides, they aren’t wrong. Huntsville is an easy drive. And isn’t this precisely why Rog and I invested in the new Sprinter van? With him practically retired, he’ll be game to tag along. We’ll make a jolly time of it.

Surely there must be something new to experience in Alabama. Something I’ve never thought to bread and fry or bake into a pie.

“Sorry,” I say to my seatmate, realizing I’ve just snort-laughed out loud. The kind lady God placed shoulder-to-shoulder with me is eighty-five, if a day. “Just thinking about Alabama cuisine. Ever been?”

The woman’s chuckle is deep and musical, like molasses or an old gospel refrain. For a moment, I think I see “the look” in her eyes. She opens her mouth as if to say something. Instead she closes her lips. When she opens them again, it’s to introduce herself as Opal. No need to ask Opal which end of the journey she calls home. Her gentle twang speaks volumes.

The sun glints painfully off the plane’s wing as it banks eastward. Casting a final glance at the lofty peaks below, I spot the slender, pointed one visible from Lucy’s charming balcony.

“Mmm. God sure don’t make no junk.” At Opal’s words, I turn to find her looking over my shoulder. “Pleasure trip?”

I swallow past a lump in my throat. “Mostly.” I don’t dare bring up the part where I’d boxed up my mother’s clothes that still smelled like her. Or that I’d donated them, along with furnishings that had been in the family forever but wouldn’t be useful in staging the house for sale. There’s something tender and safe about Opal. Something motherly that threatens to burst the dam inside me.