For months Mickey had ridden around and around and around our house in endless circles, her stereo cranked, her smile beaming, anticipating that day when she could nose out of the driveway onto the open road. And then two weeks ago, it happened: My baby girl got her license. I haven’t fully exhaled since.
Of course, she wanted to drive her car to school the next morning. I had to stop myself from running down the driveway after her to yell to her one last pearl of wisdom that might keep her safe as she embarked upon this rite of passage into adulthood. “I’m so excited!” she effused. Me too, I thought, in the nail biting sense of the word. I heard a truck winding up the hill toward the end of our driveway, and I prayed she had her radio dialed down, and her attention up. I made a mental note to cut back the seagrass that was eclipsing part of her view of the approaching truck, and, damn it, the blackberry bush that blocked her view from the left. She waited at the foot of the driveway as the truck sped by, my heart thudding loudly at the back of my throat. Then she entered the highway and disappeared down the road.