I walk out the door to find him in the driveway. The sixteen years of his tall frame standing next to the car smiling, blue eyes shining, teenage hair tousled, on the asphalt driveway. It’s his car, his freedom, his wheel. He’s been driving away since day one. It carries permanence now.
I have had all of his time to prepare for this moment, the same mantra I’ve said to myself most days of motherhood. Like the day he rolled over, took his first step, waved from the bus window, got his first paycheck. Like the day I had to stand on my tippy toes to greet my child with a hug and he bent down, so I could kiss his forehead. Each day now.
Each day since the day they are born is a step away, a step towards who your child becomes, a step toward you becoming a memory in their childhood days and god-willing then, a friend for life.
He comments to me with his subtle contagious sarcasm that although he will now do this drive alone, that I've been by his side practicing so many times. The irony, I think to myself in his simple sentence. I was practicing too Jack, to let you go, all this life of yours.
The tears stream down and I smile for him, with him, always
He will walk out the door now and leave
And I’ll pray
That he may never go faster than his guardian angel can fly
And I’ll always be here, waiting for him to walk back in the door, and be home.
And so it goes, and so the timekeeper carries on.
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