My preferred route, Back Cove Trail, curves its way around the water of Portland, Maine’s Casco Bay, following Baxter Boulevard to Tukey’s Bridge, bending back toward the parking lot, a Mobius strip circuit for contemplation and exercise. Its gravel is familiar to me, smelling of ocean, sun, fauna, and dog. The tide is coming in. I begin the walk, hearing the crunch of grit under my feet that will be my companion for the next three and a half miles of this orbit, each footfall predictable, reassuring.

I have come to Back Cove directly from the airport, after my daughter’s plane swept out of sight, heading to Oregon and graduate school. Although I knew this was coming, I had hoped to put it off just a little longer. At least she stayed within driving distance for her undergraduate years. This departure has the sense of a fork-in-the-road moment, an uncertain parting of ways settling for the long haul in my gut. It has come to this, years of centering my world around her to get us through, the stereotypical single mom raising her child. Today the temptation was strong to go home and brood; I resisted. What better place than this, Back Cove, to physically put one foot in front of the other as I ponder the past, consider the future, my stride a pendulum, asking, “Now what?”

Linden trees, turning golden now, border the path. Walkers, runners, bicyclists are all participating, along with their dogs. A caterpillar scrambles to make it across in one piece as I overhear snatches of conversation: “. . . call your sister, it’s her birthday. . .”; “. . . yeah, right?” Ducks float matter-of-factly while the marsh grass sways with lapping water, as if longing to be touched. The breeze is keeping pace today.

The chirping of young birds in a tree is insistent, but I cannot see them. I consider how mother birds nudge their young out of the nest, sharp beaks pushing, expecting them to figure it out. Is it really that simple? I tell myself I wouldn’t want my daughter to be dependent, squandering opportunities she is brave enough to pursue. Yet this separation already aches with arthritic permanence. I wonder whether the dependent one has been me all along.

Observing as I go, my perspective starts to shift outward, like I’m having a dialogue with the world around me. A woman jogs by, her tiny terrier trotting intently beside her. A tree offers welcome shade to a bag of dog doo, neatly knotted, lying abandoned. I suppose I should be glad they bagged it.

In the early days, I walked while my daughter rode her first bicycle. Oblivious in the open-air freedom, she’d ride too far ahead, cranking pedals with abandon, ignoring my directive to circle back to me. I’d jog to catch up as people walking past gave judgmental looks. Today, even as I smile at the memory, it feels bittersweet, picturing myself always trying to catch up to her, to keep her in sight.

The cement part of the trail is coming up: Tukey’s Bridge. Between me and the rushing cars on the highway, there is a three-foot barrier adorned with graffiti. Its protection does not seem sufficient; I step up my pace. The wind pushes as I look over the railing on my right to the bay below.

It occurs to me that being a parent is a little like the tide, coming in with urgency, demanding, then shifting to ebb, pulling back, further and further. Now I salvage whatever pieces are left behind to hold onto, random keepsakes.

Back to gravel, sloping down, a mole scoots across into the bushes. Rain has washed out parts of the path, creating ruts that run toward a chain link fence, some trash visible beyond. Here, the trail is overgrown with cornflowers, Queen Anne’s lace, and the wild Rosa rugosa with their captivating scent, resilient enough to withstand a harsh New England winter. Rocks arranged into “BLM” when the tide recedes glimmer underwater. Black ants do their chores, undaunted by weight or distance. The sight is oddly moving. A bee sings by.

At this point the path forks, to the left toward downtown, or right toward the parking lot, and home—as barren as I let it be. I stay right to close the ring around my thoughts as seagulls cry. Is it possible to have closure, I think, is it necessary? I hear a plane. I consider my daughter, migrating to a new experience, facing more unknowns than I am. How many people are letting someone go today? Maybe it’s not about closure, or comfort, or even accomplishment; maybe it’s about coping, putting one foot in front of the other. A fire truck horn reminds me of the world’s troubles, and I approach my car, giving myself permission to take life one day at a time, knowing I will return to step into this circle and begin again.

-Diane Reid

Diane Reid is currently completing her MFA in Creative Nonfiction Writing at Bay Path University. Her work has been published in Kaleidoscope and AudioFile Magazine. Diane is a speech/language pathologist in public school in Maine, where she lives with her cat, Psyche.