enlightenment, the discovery of a poem I would love for the rest of my life, the times we sang and played volleyball and painted landscapes and studied chemistry and talked about the boys we wished we knew.

Every time I tried to tell the student guide something about the good old days at the convent, my daughter’s eyes widened and she looked at her shoes with an intensity that suggested I cut way back on my disco-tinged memories of Catholic school in the ’70s.

After the tour, we had a bite to eat while the choral group entertained. I was very impressed by their voices. Remembering my days in the chapel choir, I wondered, Did I ever sing like that? I watched my daughter listening and knew immediately what she was thinking: Will I ever sing like that? She was looking ahead, while I was lost in the past. But we were both dreaming about the same things. I think about high school and I am excited for her, imagining all the experiences she’ll have.

She looks at the future and wonders what’s in store. I could tell her, but what fun would that be? Besides, what do I know about being a teenager today? I still talk about record players and typewriters. Talk about pre-Jurassic.

I chat with a young English teacher and tell him what I remember from ninth-grade reading. My daughter is tolerant but finally whispers, “Why not just tell him the story of your life, Mom?”

I have to make a graceful exit and let her look around the school on her own. That’s OK. I have other stuff to do. But the nostalgia remains. Later, when I gather with the women I grew up with who are here with their own daughters, we’ll visit the past with giggles and squeals. We’ll tell the old stories — if we’re smart, without our daughters there to overhear. We can’t let them know we were once human and (gasp!) girls.  CD