It seems like only yesterday, April 21, 1986, when I stood in the delivery room at Alachua General Hospital holding that precious litle being and marveling at just how radiantly beautiful she was, awash with a euphoria I had never felt and words could never describe. Daddy's baby girl.

I remember when I wished for the time when she could feed herself, walk, grow out of diapers. Those days came quickly, and then it was off to school, ballet lessons, riding lessons, her first horse, her first boyfriend, her first car, her first job. There were the trips to the hospital when she fell while roller blading, the fights with her younger brother, worrying when she was out late and didn't call.

 But she always came home. Our home. The one her mother and I strived so hard to make a bastion of warmth and security in a world of uncertainty. 

 Today, only a little while ago, this home became a little bit more of a house. I hugged my baby girl, a beautiful, strong, self-confident young woman, and told her I loved her. I told her I would miss her. We tried not to cry, but still did. Then she got in her car a drove away to start her new life.

It goes so fast.