Family and love

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I am not good at returning things. Take library books. I have no intention of keeping them,but it takes a jolt to separate us —like a call from the librarian. Today,they sit awaiting return three days early. Because today, I'm painfully aware of the passage of time. In thirty Breitling Replica minutes,assuming my son is packed — and he will be — Christopher Paul ("the best boy of all," he'd tease his sisters)leaves for his last year of college. He's our youngest,the last to leave home. By now,I tell myself,! am used to these departures. I am used to these departures. I am used to these departures...

Only this one is for keeps. Next May,there will be no bags of soiled laundry coming home. Chris won't be coming home at all. After graduation, it's marriage to Pam — the sunny Calif ornian, adorable and already beloved by us all — and on to start their life together a thousand miles away. Every tick of our copper kitchen clock says , This — is — it. Emp — ty — nest.

My sister, the research chemist, calls. "For Pete's sake, you knew it was coming. " "So is the end of the world,but who's ready for it?" "You really are in a mood. " My silence speaks for itself. Who knows us as well as our sisters? "After all," she adds, "he'll be home for the holidays. Any way, you wouldn't want to keep him forever. "

My sister does not read me well at all. I find myself caressing my chunky Timex as tenderly as I would a newborn's head. We've ticked away a lot of time together — waiting outside schools , athletic fields , piano lessons , rehearsals ,practices. Later,awake in bed,listening for his first car to pull into the drive. Waiting as time dragged by. Now, in take-off time,seconds spring ahead.

The doorbell summons me to a girl selling candy for her school band. The six chocolate bars are my excuse to visit Chris's room with him still in it. Boxes block the doorway. A barricade? Walls easily erect themselves at times like these. At his"Hi ,Mom, " I try to read his voice. Glad I'm here? Resentful of intrusion?

He's tossing items into a carton labeled MED. CAB. SUPPLIES. Glancing down on stomach soothers,skin scrubbers, lens solution,musky colognes,I'm reminded of the bottle of cheap aftershave he was so thrilled to find in his stocking one long-ago Christmas. He Cartier Replica used it up in a week, but his room reeked all winter. "Ever try this?" he asks now,holding up a new brand of tooth gel. I smile brightly as I shake my head,but I have the ugly urge to snatch his alien brand and write TRAITOR on his suitcase. We all use Crest. We've always used Crest!

I realize my hand still clutches a damp tissue when I find myself using it to wipe his battered alarm clock. A wasted effort. Not only is it no longer smeared with peanut butter or sticky with Coke,I notice it is among the abandoned.

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