Au Revoir

We left at four this morning for the airport. The dog came out of the barn to give us a polite send-off. We drove in the darkness, enjoying each other’s company, talking the entire hour and a half.

My son took the return portion of his flight back to the U.S. When I purchased the ticket in July, I didn’t think he’d use this half. We’d just throw it in the trash can and live happily ever after here in Europe where he would become a rock star. But the enormity of the undertaking made him have second thoughts; and with his friends at the university tempting him back, he decided that he’d like to go to school next quarter . . .using the return ticket while he still had the chance.

I’m home now. He’s in Paris waiting for his San Francisco-bound flight. I’m crying. I don’t know why. He’s nineteen. He needs to be on his own. The plan wasn’t for him to live at our house so why am I so upset now that he’s gone?

When I walked in the house and saw his slippers lined up under the desk where he had recently sat at the computer, that’s what made me feel as if someone had punched me in the gut. Those little ghost leavings – his guitar pick on the floor, the hoody he left for me to wear, a notebook with his drawings, his scent on the sheets I stripped from the bed and threw in the dirty laundry pile.

I don’t know why I’m sad. He decided he wants to go to the university and that’s great. That’s what I assumed he’d do from the moment he was born. It’s safer than being a rock star. His decision was wise and good.

Every time he leaves I regret all the things I didn’t say to him because I didn’t want to sound like the irrelevant adult that I am: take care of yourself, you’ll be sorry if you get tattoos, sell your motorcycle, pursue your guitar dreams at all costs, remember that love is the only thing that matters in life, but don’t throw your dreams away for some girl, remember you need to make money too so choose something you enjoy, et al.

The trees on the wooded hills are turning bright colors and the leaves are falling, and the flowers in the pots are dying. It’s sad when someone you love goes away. It’s sadder when they leave in the autumn . . . when the air is full of melancholy and the trees cry with you.