Well, it's happening. This week, it's happening. Young giant packing up his car to drive away and start a life that isn't here, isn't with us, isn't in my ears or eyes, isn't where I sense his presence as a kind of constant.
No one to whittle sticks on the front steps, or leave seriously muddied logger style boots in the way after a tramp in the woods. No one going up and down the stairs at very odd hours in the middle of the night, or alternating fascinatingly evocative guitar music with ... um ... well, whatever that other stuff is supposed to be. No one cluttering up the TiVo with weird movies or absurdly nutso talk show hosts ("you guys gotta see this!"), and no one eating the food I thought I'd have around for the whole week. No one to leave dishes on the coffee table and no one to do it when I say, "you do the kitchen tonight."
Two people's clothes in the wash now. Two people's dishes in the sink, and two people's reading material scattered across the living room. Two people for meals, two people for evenings, two people for conversation.
I'll be fine. No. Really. I will. I've got lots to do. Library work and school work and writing work and house work and walking and teaching and reading and cooking and dreaming and ...
when he'll be back.
Love, Mom and Dad