He's gone for the summer and I am left holding his big boy attitude and the expediently delivered, embarrassed, goodbye kiss, as I watch him walk down the jet way.
My heart grapples with the familiar vice grip of grief as the last curl rounds the corner.
I stand watching an empty hall, a blank wall, then nothing and I ask myself, "What are you waiting for".
The realization dawns.
Him.
I am waiting for a dark haired three-year old to come skipping back into my arms. Before the causalities of divorce and the crocodile tick-tock of time.
I have been waiting since the start of the capital D.
Waiting.
Certain that the next time I would have him back and "MOM" would roll off his tongue with adoration and abandon.
Staring at the white wall of the airport, I know that he's gone and I need to have a good cry and let him go.
This thing called motherhood is interesting. It carves so many deep places in a person, caverns of loving and aching.
My boy is growing up.
His eyes roll back in his sockets with careless abandon and I am far less brilliant than I once was. And yet the young man he is becoming is someone I would like to know, he is interesting, witty, bright and swims in a sea so deep even I sometimes hesitate to jump in.
I walk out of the airport.
The phone rings, "I miss you Mom",
"Me too, Owen, Me too".
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