The Long Way Here

This week,

both our kids 

left home for college.

My daughter, a freshman, 

journeyed to school

with butterflies the size of pterodactyls

flapping wildly about her stomach.

Campus was a frenzy–

first-year students,

flush with nervous eagerness–

a parade of boxes and minifridges 

marching to awaiting dorms.

We lingered, 

upon unspoken insistence, 

to find a special place for every item:

a specific desk drawer for pencils;

a perfect windowsill for succulents;

a spot to charge her phone.

Then, she crept out– 

timid steps forward, 

smiling politely when someone–

equally unsure

asked about lunch.

My wife, to her credit, 

held it together 

until we made it to the car.

Then she sobbed–

not for our daughter,

but at her own change in purpose.

She was still her mother, 

but something unspoken shifted.

Two days later, our son–

a senior–

left home with the ease

of familiar routine.

His car was packed to the roof:

faded blue bins of kitchenware;

duct-taped boxes bursting at the seams;

an old lamp peering from one window 

like an eager child.

After eighteen years of school,

stretching back to paper stars 

and preschool blocks,

he was approaching the final stretch.

A  knot formed in my chest, 

tight beneath my heart,

as his car left the driveway– 

I’d always be his father,

but this might have been

his last summer home.

And then, there were two.

Just us again–

young lovers, 

sporting a touch of grey,

still wondering 

where life might lead us.