I’ll be the first to admit it it. I am a worrier.
And I worry most especially about those for whom I care deeply. But sometimes, I worry about people I don’t even know. Like the elderly woman at Goodwill yesterday, who was unjustly reprimanded by an insensitive and overly zealous clerk for taking her cart into the dressing room area and then having more than three items to try on. (Seriously?) I, in fact, anguished about that woman the rest of the afternoon, hoping her feelings had not been too hurt, or her day completely ruined, by the experience. (Mine probably would have been.)
Of course I worry about Amy. And as the time of her leaving nears, I expect to worry a lot more. I can’t help it. Will she get enough sleep? Get along with her roommate? End up with pneumonia (again?) That sort of thing.
If only I could be assured that in the end, life, weighed in the balance, would be found to be more kind than not, I could stop. Most importantly, that nothing so terrible as to hurt or jade my impossibly beautiful and tender-hearted daughter would ever happen. Then I’d stop worrying.
But for now, I simply am not equipped with an off switch.