The Relationship We Could Have Had
Mourning the mother-daughter connection I never had
The water is warm, the sound of an alto accompanied by a guitar streams in, and candles flicker overhead. My 15-year-old daughter and I sit side by side in a large water-filled room of Sevilla’s Baños Arabes. We listen to the singer switch from Portuguese fado to Spanish bolero to Frank Sinatra’s legato, and I think that this right here is the most perfect moment of our mother-daughter weekend.
“Margarita.” An attendant steps into the room and waves to me. “Time to go upstairs.”
We climb several flights of stairs and emerge on the roof, where the blue pool with jets overlooks the Giralda, Sevilla’s famous minaret-turned-bell-tower. There, we relax for a few more minutes, watching the sun reflect off the Giralda’s towering Giraldillo and listening to the call of church bells swaying all around us. This is the most perfect moment, I decide.
And then I change my mind. There is no one moment that’s more perfect than the other. This entire weekend has been like a field of peonies by a volcanic lake at the foot of a mountain. Not only because of Sevilla and its charm, but also because my daughter and I spent it together. Mostly because of that.
