I’ve been having lunches with my son these last few weeks of a school
Each Thursday
Communion– celebrated with Whataburgers or Chipotle Burritos and consecrated by discussions of college choices, friendships, and our favorite TV shows
The gift that growing grief gives, a focus in the present, is more pronounced each week
One week he names that grief with the same precision that Adam used to name God’s first lion
“they say that you spend 95% of the time you spend with your parents by the time your 18”
He doesn’t realize these kinds of statements need prefaces warnings.
“5%–that’s all his mother and I have left,”
the thought knocks on the door of the part of my brain that is in charge of acceptance where it stalls out for the time being
What will I do with this one wild and precious summer?
Go to see the Redwoods for one, because we let him choose and that’s what he wanted.
And I’ll do the nostalgic work of noticing his lasts because he’ll be too excited to do it himself:
His last shift at work
His last night with the boys
His last night in his bed
I’ll be damned if I see that Sandlot meme in 5 months telling me “at some point in your childhood, you and your friends went outside to play together for the last time and nobody knew it.”
I KNEW IT. I SAW IT. I WAS THERE. I’M SEEING HIM.
CapsLock to let you know I was yelling. Did you hear it?
And then he’ll go. He’ll be gone.
I’m told a different kind of relationship will grow up in that space between us. A friend will come back to me.
We’ll see. I just know that the actions of the prodigal father are coming into focus. I can feel myself starting to plan the Thanksgiving menu already. No turkey this year. We are slaughtering fattened calf.
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