The Neighbor

Two doors down, the neighbors back a U-Haul van into their driveway. A few minutes later, their teenage son carries a chair into the vehicle. Dad follows with a couple of table legs. As I walk back from the mailbox, I catch glimpses of the son. His hair is curly and unkempt, his face has no evidence of facial hair. I’ve never met the family. Our cul-de-sac is quiet, and people generally keep to themselves. However, a few months ago, I noticed a “Congratulations, Senior!” sign in their front yard. The timing leads me to believe he’s now headed off to college.

A flood of memories come back to me: the pile accumulating in our upstairs living space as I prepared to pack for college, the clean and sterile feeling of the 2-year old residence hall which bustled with families and volunteers, the sticky sweat covering my body as I carried plastic bins into the dorms in central Texas, the blue and white comforter that I spread across the extra-long twin bed, reunited with my roommate whom I had met over the summer.

And then it hits me. This kid packing his belongs into the U-Haul is so much closer in age to my son. This fall, I’ll travel back to Georgetown for my 20th year reunion. In 9 years, my son will be ready to head off to college or whatever next steps he chooses.

Suddenly the boy is my son. And, all of the ways that my son is gaining independence are precursors to the future that is already here.

Halfway Up

I think about going over to congratulate the kid and ask where he’s headed, but given our lack of previous communication, it seems invasive. I’m left to go inside, embrace what I have right now, and ponder the future.