the definition.

A graduate of high school now lives in our home.

Which makes three of us, I suppose.

When Riley was just a little kid, seven or eight, she asked me a question.

“What does bittersweet mean?”

And so we talked about it.

About bittersweet.

The rising joy and the crushing sorrow.

The tinge of grey skies around all the bright yellow sunshine.

The Amy Tan quote I read years earlier about happy and sad sometimes being from the same thing.

She was only a kid.  A squirt.  A curious and forgetful sprite.

But even little kids understand big truths.

For months, maybe even years, after that conversation Riley would be in the middle of some moment and she would pause.

She would catch my eye and ask, “Is this bittersweet?”

Celebrating my little brother’s move to Wyoming but mourning our own loss of he and his family living nearby.

Praising God for good reports concerning my mother’s health but aware of the ticking time bomb lying in wait.

The hard and the lovely.  In one dizzying package.

“Yes, this is bittersweet,” I would tell her, grasping her miniature hand in my larger one.

And on a stage last Saturday night, we held hands again.

I’d almost forgotten how that felt.

And we all stood together.

Father.

Mother.

Daughter.

It was a milestone.

A rite of passage.

A significant part of the American experience.

High school graduation.

A one-time deal.

Standing on the edge . . .

Of that stage.

Of the Rest of Her Life.

Oh, Riley.

If you were to ask me again, I would have to say, “Yes, this is bittersweet.”