I have been procrastinating this prompt, because I knew immediately what I was going to write about, and I knew it wouldn't be easy. So, here I go, facing a door.
The garden is ours. The beauty, the sweet secrets, the glorious memories in full bloom all around me. Every flower in this garden has been watered with love and fertilized by an unbreakable bond of trust and affection. She and I planted this garden together, starting the day she was born.
Here forever grows the wildflowers she picked for me when she was only three, and the yellow roses she bought me on Mother's Day with her own money. Conversations bloom in bright blues and yellows and pinks. The little secrets she used to whisper so sweetly in my ear, are baby's breath gently blossoming next to sunflowers of light, silly banter. Deep green leaves and tendrils of Ivy vines grow with more mature exchanges of late. Butterflies dance around, as we still do from time to time. The sun is bright, it's rays reaching the far depths of the garden, where a path winds through and ends at an ornate wooden door.
This heavy, oaken door is carved with everything she has loved. There are animals and musical instruments alongside a boy-band and paint brushes. Some of her paintings are etched in together with some still life pictures of her and I together: hugging, smiling, laughing. We've stopped at the door, gazing at it's wonderful tribute. It's my job to open the door for her, and let her walk through. We have our garden and our path, but now it's time for her to embrace life and make it her own. This is the door to her future. The pathway beyond is for her to pave. I know that I will meet her and walk with her along her path, but I am no longer laying the stones.
Standing at this door is the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm not ready for her to leave our garden, but I am so proud of this young lady I call my daughter.
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