When my daughter was little, she had a hard time letting go of Christmas, so at bedtime, I used to sit with her and we’d ball up our hands into fists, hanging on tightly for just a few more minutes to the smell of balsam and the glow of candlelight, then we’d take a deep breath and open our hands, letting the day fly away like a dove on the wing, aching as it left us, but knowing that letting go was the only way to make room for spring with its snowdrops and robins, its dappled fawns and fox cubs.

Year after year, for Christmas and Easter and summers and birthdays, I’d help her let go.

Last week, my girl graduated from college and headed for a big city, where she’s about to start her first grown-up job. My husband and I moved her in, lugging bins and boxes and bags into her small, bright apartment, and then it was time to say goodbye.

I was happy and proud and sad and panicked. Had I taught her all she needed to know? Can she fill out a 1040? Had she read Yeats? Does she know how to shut off the smoke alarm? As I stood in the doorway desperately wishing for more time, trying hard not to cry, my daughter met me there. She closed her hands tight, and made me close mine, and then, smiling, she helped me let go.