Robert Frost Was Right—Part Five

Man, I need to find a way to wrap this up. The road of my life looks a lot like the image posted today. The months that have passed since my trip to Houston offer up so much material, that I've resolved myself to get through this—so that I can move on—on so many levels.

The big day came. Graduation was at 4 p.m. Diana really wanted to eat at Salt Grass, a steakhouse that was once famous for it's amazing beef, but has since become another corporate "Dolly." But she really wanted a filet mignon—she liked the way the words sounded when they fell off her tongue. So we made reservations for the whole damned clan.

We all filed into a long row near the stage—my parents and I and Diana's father and his pregnant wife, young son, father-in-law and mother. I hadn't seen him in over five years. And he looked good, as always. A tall drink of water with midnight blue eyes that were starting to show their age, the same smile that got me here in the first place, and curly black hair now peppered with gray.

It's hard for him to look at me these days. It has been since the day I walked out.

We were every jack-and-diane-young-turks-living-on-a-prayer song. Crazy in love from the moment we laid eyes on each other. But you don't hear what happens to Jack and Diane or Tommy and Gina 10 years later. It ain't pretty.

He let his insecurities get the best of him. I know that now. So here we are, sitting together at our only child's high school graduation. Everyone around us is making small talk, but we are silent. And reading each other's minds. Pride and nostalgia. Worry for her because we both know where she's headed.

He still loves me and looks at his new wife with regret. I still love him and look at my new husband with appreciation. It's lop-sided and sad. But make no mistake. My sympathy stops there. You reap what you sow.

Diana attends an inner-city school. Caucasians are the minority. Latinos and African-Americans fill most of the auditorium. Living in Houston gave me an education on people and culture—it seemed every country was represented here. My new home doesn't offer up much with regards to range on the color spectrum. So I have come to the sad conclusion that man must have a never-ending quest to find something to hate or belittle. Material up here is limited so the old codgers whisper things like "Whatcha expect—he's a Finn dontcha know?" or "Dem Norwegians ain't the sharpest tools in da shed."

As the procession of students passed us, I could see her down there in her royal blue cap and gown. She looked up and smiled and waved at me. She and I knew what it meant. She had saved that smile just for me.

Each student walked across the stage and accepted their diploma as family and friends cheered wildly. These beautiful young people were about to embark on life's journey—the real deal. And everyone in the room felt a little pride and worry whether it was their child or the person next to them.

Because few students planned to attend a university, some had plans to go to community or vocational colleges. But most were off to basic training. I found it hard to cheer—so many of these young people were displaced by Hurricane Katrina, and most of these kids had with no other way out. I feared for them and wished that our government had a conscience and prayed for those families whose children won't make it back.

And then they called her name. I shot to my feet, my cheeks stained with mascara and tears, and screamed "Nana-Banana!" I hadn't planned on saying that—but it just came out of my mouth. I knew she'd call me on it later. And she did.

I thought my heart was going to pop. I had waited for this moment her whole life.

So many images of her flashed before me. The red, wrinkled baby girl handed to me nearly 19 years ago. Her peaceful, round toddler face as she slept in her bed, cuddling her Dino—and the look on her face the first day of school when I said it was time for Dino to go away. The look in her eyes the morning I told her daddy and I were getting a divorce. Her puffy face, swelled up from tears as we sat silently in the restaurant the night before, holding on to my hand for dear life as she absorbed the brunt of what was growing in her belly. And her body language today as she stood up straight and walked across that stage like she owned it, took that diploma and turned to her family and smiled.

Good job, Diana. I love you. No matter what.