To Her, With Love

The first day of summer camp has arrived again, as usual before I ever found the time to go through the bin full of stuff from last summer that still sits in the garage.

At least my daughter had no trouble finding anything. Her comforter, still in the dry cleaning bag. Her shower supplies, leftover stationery, enormous duffel bags I had hung inside out on hooks so they could air out for a few (365) days. Yep, it was all there, in the garage, ready to go at a moment's notice.

My only role in the camp preparation -- other than repeatedly saying "check the garage" -- was to compose the three letters that must tide her over until post-departure mail begins to arrive. Ever the procrastinator, I put it all off until the last minute, finding it difficult to write letters telling my daughter how much I missed her when she was only in the next room. Or writing that she should have fun at camp when, (a) I could just tell her, and (b) isn't that just painfully obvious? Like I'm going to tell her she should be miserable?

But, as in past years, not wanting to be outdone by all the good mothers who have sent letters that will be awaiting their daughters on their cots, I dug up some suitable correspondence materials this morning and started writing. At least I was able to get rid of some old holiday cards and thank you notes that just sit around taking up space. Maybe I should store them in the garage.

Anyway, I dashed off three short notes, not one of which said anything compelling (other than "Merry Christmas" or "Thank you for your thoughtfulness"). There are no new stories to entertain her with yet, there is no need yet to tell her I miss her. All I could really come up with was how much I love her, love being her housemate, her some time confidante, her mom.

And I guess you can never say those things too many times, especially when they come straight from the heart.