a kid is born.
Well, if we are really going for accuracy, a kid is conceived. Preferably in private. Hopefully in love.
Some nine months later, give or take, said fifth, and final, kid is born.
And two previously young, vibrant, moderately toned young people become parents.
Years go by. Often unobserved, generally unnoted, aging occurs.
Then one fine May morning the mother of said kid wakes up (if she's been to sleep at all), and realizes said infant is about to leave the nest. Fly the coop. Head for the open road. Age up. Hightail it out of here. Or, in generally accepted American terms: graduate.
OMG. All caps are required. OMG.
It's May. There's a graduate in the house. There are pictures to sort. Parties to plan. Dresses to buy.
There are banquets, and celebrations, and soirees, and gatherings, and the-last-time-we'll-ever-do-this ad infinitum.
The month of May is a watershed month. A mere thirty-one days filled with prom dresses and, in our house, tennis outfits. Driving and driving and more driving. Trips to Sam's Club and Kroger. More trips to Sam's Club and Kroger. Multiple visits to Hobby Lobby.
There's the ever familiar backache from hunching over the kitchen table into the wee hours working on homemade projects you knew some eighteen years ago you would be creating, yet somehow those eighteen years slipped by and here you are, smack dab in the middle of the month of May, with aging eyes and fumble fingers, at 1:30 am.
There's the surprise attack of a heretofore unseen Google commercial. Good old Google. What say we Google "how to let go?"
There are ferns to water and flowers to plant. Party food to buy and graduation cards to sign. There are necks to hug and farewells to fling.
The elder children return, with dear significant others in tow. Dogs run in and out, duffle bags and shoes are piled by the door. Food is bought, cooked and consumed in vast quantities, at an astonishing rate. Towels pile up. The television runs late into the night ("play the movie...yah"). Music blares. Jokes are shared. And then, all-too-soon, the crowd shoulders up, all hands in the middle, and breaks with a loud cheer before taillights head out and the old folks are left with this:
Empty. Silent. Gone.
This time there is no other nestling to hold down the fort. The last little peeper has flown. The days of May have done their bittersweet job, and therefore so have we.
