Empty Nesting

We gave the largest room in this tiny house to our son, but it was never big enough. He was a keeper of all things, always. Favorite hats and books and every paper from every grade that reminded him of something happy. He'd stack his pennies high on top of books, and beneath the books he'd keep the magazines from years ago, and inside the magazines were notes he'd taken while watching world cup soccer.

I am a devoted minimalist, seeker of clean and open space, and I gave birth to a guy like this. In this way, he is his father's son.

But today, we attacked this room together, my son and I, and suddenly it was easy to throw things away, to move them to other places. To decide that memories don't need artifacts to contain them, or not all the time, at least. Sometimes memories just are, and the old tee-shirt can go, and so can the box of tired magazines, and all the while the room grows around you, and the sun comes in, unobstructed.

We are packed now, ready to go. Tomorrow he begins his second year at college, and I begin my second fall without him. He is a man of many friends and talents, and he has found the perfect college home. I will see him go in that full knowledge and also with the knowledge that he is that rare breed of guy who wants to know what it is that I've been writing or, even, thinking, who notices how it is when I finally tame my hair, who stops, apropos of nothing, to say, Mom, I really love you, or Mom, thank you.

Thank you. Two words.

Autumn was always my favorite season, but now, to me, it means something else.