When it comes to dropping a kid off at college, the third time is not necessarily the charm. The practice you’ve had over, say, five years may bestow a veteran status; you know the ropes. A certain callusing of the heart muscle may have taken place. But the pain of the goodbye pierces still. The best you can hope for is that it’s short-lived.
And the cosmic seesaw keeps rocking. A child’s independence academically over a high school career is a point of satisfaction for a parent, if a bit of a blow to the ol’ ego. You weren’t needed. Her being a friend-centric sort is even more of a positive preparation for leaving the nest. And yet you don’t see her as much.
The summer was fine, if dominated by work. Our youngest had a new job with early hours, and a lot of them, at a bakery. But days off didn’t really align, so, speaking selfishly, we got in only a couple of trips to the ocean and a single run at Long Beach.
This strikes me as a writ-small corollary to the life of a middle-class family trying to get by in the Hamptons, with the attendant lack of expensive vacations. Meaning occasional ski trips over long weekends at an Airbnb had to suffice.
Which is not to complain. Less in this case can be appreciated more. Our easy glides together down the lengthy Crosstown trail at Butternut in the Berkshires will be playing on the inside of my eyelids at my deathbed.
For now, it’s tough to get to the other side of the absence because it’s jarringly there whenever you walk past the newly empty bedroom.
One way to deal with it is by remembering that the kid landed at Cortland, which means visits to pretty much the center of the state, an area that’s like a palliative antithesis to Long Island.
Although, on this particular return drive, even the L.I.E. on a Friday at rush hour was weirdly, providentially, clear.
We came home to fireflies in the front yard, Bennett. I wanted to tell you about it, but I think just then Welcome Week had s’mores and games at the student union lined up for you.
I can wait.