Perspective requires time.
He is 18, almost 19.
He is 6 feet tall.
He is strong, slender, and beautiful.
He is my son.
Whoever said a mother's love is a dangerous thing was right.
I would do anything to protect him.
I would run in front of a speeding truck and gladly take the hit, just to know he's okay.
He graduates from high school tomorrow.
I'm okay with that. I've still got him for the summer.
But in the fall he leaves my home. It's possible that this will never be his everyday home again.
I know this is the way of things. I want this for him -- his own life, adventures, struggles, joys.
What I don't want is him gone.
From my perspective, once I left home it was never the same.
I didn't want to go back.
Does he feel that way?
Will he come back?
It's different than it was for me. He knows he can tell me anything.
He knows he can tell me how I annoy him. He knows I'll listen.
I didn't have that.
It's just that I'm going to miss his "being" in the house. His heavy steps and joie de vivre.
Time and perspective.
Perspective and time.
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