"Mexicali Rose," my Spanish-minoring daughter, has returned to her native country and begins boring old college life again tomorrow. We picked her up last night. She is not a demonstratively affectionate girl, but I have to say, when I got out of the van, she came walking toward me quickly with one harm holding a bag and one arm reaching for me. It's a picture I'll never forget.
She had a great time and came home mostly unscathed--however, there was one perilous mountain-climbing day wherein a big guy named Ricky got dehydrated and had to be "rescued," and several kids had trouble getting down the mountain, Mexicali Rose being one of them, who had to crab walk in some places to keep from falling. But fall she did anyway, several times, and bloodied her hands and knees and still has large bruises and a cactus needle in her left shin.
This is a girl, who, I'm not kidding, just showed me a paper cut over Christmas break as if I should jump up and boil water, call an ambulance and hysterically rend my garments out of compassion all at the same time, over a paper cut.
But you know what? She's home! And her prayer tonight at dinner had a definite mature-er ring to it.
Hija casera, más vieja agradable, mi mexicano se levantó!
Welcome home, my eldest daughter, my Mexican rose!