MargenMy daughter was four the summer I taught her to swim. I'd hold her by the belly in the shallow water while she kicked, helpless with laughter, shouting “don't let go, don't let go!”. I kept promising I wouldn't, my fingers already a little way off her skin, letting her be the one who — without knowing it — was keeping herself afloat.
Yesterday I took her to the airport. She was leaving for the other side of the world with a whole life packed into two suitcases and her eyes shining with pure fear and longing.
She hugged me hard in the boarding queue and said, very quietly, “don't let go of me yet”. And I held her, and I promised I wouldn't, just like that summer.
Then she went through security, turned around once to wave goodbye, and I watched her swim away on her own, perfectly, towards the other shore. Just like that summer. Only this time I wasn't needed at all, and that was, exactly, the promise kept.