Four years ago, I had a vision. It was, as my visions tend to be, simple: a tiny yellow painted kitchen with a window over the sink. Candles. Music. Laughter. At the time, I was going through a divorce and there was very little to laugh about. I had no idea where we were going, let alone where we were going to live. And then this yellow kitchen scene appeared in my mind’s eye. I didn’t know what it meant or where it was. I don’t even like yellow very much. But after years of visioning scenes, characters and stories as a writer, I knew enough to tuck it away, trusting that the vision would become clear when the time was right.
This weekend I was running errands with my *almost* twelve-year-old daughter. We needed to return two chairs that didn’t work in our new house. As I was placing one in the shopping cart, I turned to find her trying her best to lift the other chair out of the back of my truck.
“Hey!” I said. “That’s heavy! Let me help you with that.”
“No, I got it,” she said firmly.
Her thin arms shook as she lifted it out. I let her try to put it into the shopping cart, but when it started rolling away, I had to jump in. She was pissed. But as we walked into the store, I watched her carefully, my only daughter and the youngest of my two kids. She tries so hard to be tough and has never cared for big shows of affection. When she was two, she would say “good-bye” when I tucked her in and roll over and go to sleep! It was disconcerting, to say the least, especially after raising her brother, who couldn’t get enough hugging and snuggling at bedtime. As she got older, she stopped hugging me back and would simply stand there with her arms limp by her side. I always accepted it as ‘how she was wired’ and let it go. Her father is the same way. I chalked it up to genetics and didn’t want to try to change her or make her uncomfortable.
But things are different now.