I am teaching English in Turkey, in between jobs, barely surviving. My daughter Jessica is in California. I haven’t seen her in two years. She turns 20 in four days. How can I send her a birthday present?
I open my old Paypal account and send her the last money I have there. She will get an email telling her of the $45. Not much–enough to buy a book for college. She has only one class this semester. Her financial aid failed. I feel the disappointment in the emails that she sends me–in what she writes. In what she doesn’t write. I wish I could go back and help her. I wish I could do so much more.
I send her an email, saying how glad I am that she was born. “I love you,” I write, each letter a pulse of my heart. I wish I could put myself into the electronic message, like in “Star Trek” when Scotty beamed the Captain up.
I am trying to write my way home to her. Each post I craft, each photo I upload, each Twitter tweet I send–hang suspended in a virtual world, connections across continents, possibilities of a breakthrough.
Email. My connection to my daughter. Light on a computer screen like wishing on a star.