In 1969, two of the Beatles, John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote a song that came to my mind last week. The sad lyric begins like this: “Wednesday morning at five o'clock as the day begins: Silently closing her bedroom door / Leaving the note that she hoped would say more / She goes downstairs to the kitchen clutching her handkerchief / Quietly turning the backdoor key / Stepping outside she is free.”

The Beatles were singing about a girl who was making a painful break with her parents. She feels the pressing need to get away from them and find a freedom that she cannot have in the home where she grew up. The parents themselves are portrayed as uncomprehending because fixated on themselves.

The line which serves as something of a refrain says it best: “She’s leaving home where she lived for so many years alone.”

The reason why this sad ditty came to my mind recently was a leave-taking in my own home. However, you may be relieved to know that the atmosphere of this leaving was entirely different from that of the girl in the song. For one thing, this leave-taking came after so many years of living in a loving relationship with parents. For another, this departure qualified as a natural rite of passage after graduation from college and being hired in a job that means the beginning of a career.

My daughter left home at the right time in her life with the enthusiastic backing of her parents in anticipation of becoming a teacher. Of course, my wife and I felt some separation pangs but we also felt happy for our now grown-up child that she was going out into the world of work prepared for adventure and the opportunity to do some good.

Of course, this kind of leave-taking is one of the oldest stories in the world and you may wonder why it deserves retelling here. Millions of other parents have experienced the welcome departure from home of their children after the latter have come of age. In fact, for most parents with seniority, that event took place long ago. It has become part of ancient history for them.

But for me, a person who does everything later than normal people, this event has happened in my later years. Only after reaching age 73 am I old enough to see my daughter set out on her first job. It has taken me a long lifetime to arrive at this day so significant in the life of our family.

The major milestones of life can have a different resonance depending on the age at which you come to them. For me, going through the departure of my daughter at 73 hardly feels the same as it would have at age 43, for instance. Inevitably, I both experience it differently at the time and have formed a different set of reflections afterward.

My main response to this leavetaking is one of thanksgiving for longevity. When my daughter was born on New Year’s Day in 1980, I began to hope and pray for survival until she grew up. Despite being aware that most American men last until their middle seventies, I was painfully aware that many do not. For her sake and my own I wanted to enjoy good enough health to be around at least for the completion of her schooling.

Of course, I also feel thankful that my daughter’s upbringing was so harmonious. Unlike the girl in the Beatles’ song, she prospered at home, loving her neighborhood and making friends with a great many age peers and others. Despite having all of her schooling in the same zip code, she learned to appreciate the larger world and to face it with confidence.

That this has happened I take as a gift, the best I could have received. And for me to have been well in mind and body all during my only child’s development into a young woman gratifies me more than I can easily express. Clearly it was not my own doing; that’s why I call it a gift. The risky ride of my own growing older has carried me to an important destination.

And yet life remains vulnerable. Another of my reflections on my daughter’s departure abroad is that it could be the last time I see her. The longevity tables makes that quite unlikely; still, the thought has often occurred to me and freighted the event with extra meaning. Unlike most forty-year-old fathers, I know that the diseases associated with later life could do me in at any time.

If these latter reflections seem excessively dour, you should know that they do not depress me but rather add to my appreciation for the gift of life. I do value each day as it comes along and welcome whatever good it holds in store. That includes the day my daughter set out for life on her own.

Richard Griffin