When Theresa was young, her best friend was her godmother’s daughter, Shonda. At one point, they made a pact: Shonda’s firstborn would be named Theresa, and Theresa’s would be named Shonda.
Shonda developed an incurable disease and died before I was born.
Theresa still kept her end of the bargain.
I got permission late Friday to leave work early to pick Shonda up from the airport. She was supposed to land at 6 p.m. in Norfolk, stay at my mom’s house long enough to get Virginia residency and then go to Virginia Commonwealth University or somewhere else.
A storm delayed and then canceled her flight. The airline offered all the Virginia-bound passengers the option to fly into Richmond and then get reimbursed for rental cars or whatever to get the rest of the way to their destinations.
I’d forgotten how much my niece looks like my sister.
I got her some food and then she crashed on my couch. Since she was coming from Hawaii, I told her she could sleep for as long as she liked and I’d drive her to Hampton on Sunday or Monday. Missy had training on Sunday, so I’d have to rush that morning or take her after.
Having Shonda here was weird. I saw her extensively until she was 2 years old. I called the ambulance the day she was born. I’ve fed her, changed her, bathed her, taken her to the park, held her whenever something made her feel uneasy.
Then I went to college.
Then she moved to Stafford and then Hawaii.
My brain couldn’t reconcile my little girl being 18.
I kept trying to say I was babysitting.
Saturday night, after we ordered pizza and watched and SNL rerun, I realized the beginning and the end of the 18-34 demographic was in my living room. She had been glued to her phone. I scoffed at us both being millennials. On social media.
The next day, we went to brunch and simultaneously whipped out our phones to send pictures of our food to the Internet.
In two years, every child Theresa had will be at least 18. My babies will be adults.
I feel so old.
I also hear a clock ticking, and I think it needs to STFU.