Amber and I sit in Fat Tuesday’s and mutilate straw papers. She’s taken hers and pulled it apart then ripped it into small squares. The squares form rows like a ragged paper quilt waiting to be sewn.

I have taken mine and ripped it in half. Each half, I have twisted between my index finger and thumb into a tight twirl that begins to curl around itself. I end up with little paper springs that will never bounce.

I’m suddenly struck by the tradition before me. My mother has always used the discarded paper from a straw as a way to pass time in a restaurant. She’d make accordions and tiny flowers. Her mother used to fiddle with the straw paper as well. Flatten and roll. Twist and bend. Some kind of calming device passed down from daughter to daughter for some odd reason.

I’ve spent nearly 5 hours with my daughter. A glorious afternoon of Barnes and Noble, great food, meeting her friends and seeing her world. I shook the hand of at least 20 college kids. Every one of them polite. Every one of them friendly. Every one of them beautiful. To them, my name is “Amber’s Mom.”

She talked about her classes - she’s learning lots about personal finance and she sees the beauty and art in business which I find fasinating. She played her music. Ben Folds Five. Piano floods the interior of her little Kia and I think for the thousandth time how perfect it is that she drives a car the color of gold.

The afternoon was pure and light. A craft store and jewelry store. I got a watch. She got a new photo box.

At Fat Tuesday’s we eat lasagna, crab dip and stuff mushrooms, share a slice of cheesecake and fight over the crust.

She drops me back at her car. She’s off to Raliegh for the weekend. I’m off to home. I hug her, pat her back. I love her. I’m proud of her. Her life is beautiful.

I drive home with a smile of my face — the one I’ve worn the last five hours.