Two Fridays before Caleb moved into his dorm, I found myself alone in the car on the way to a doctor's appointment and decided to allow myself an all-out ballfest. Apparently, the daily shower cries and occasional craughing moments had not been enough, because a torrential downpour from the ole' eye sockets and a somewhat controlled howling from the gut ensued-- until I pulled up to the stoplight at Peak and Bryan.
From the left peripheral, I could tell someone was watching me. I casually wiped my face and glanced to the side. A Hispanic teenager smiled and waved from a Jeep Grand Cherokee.
I smiled. I waved back. I was having a hard time stopping the flow of tears, though.
I let Jeep go ahead.
I made it through a few more lights with a lot of inner cheerleading and less howling, but still quite a bit of tear flow.
The next time we stopped, the young man, in his Four Squate t-shirt, off to do good early on a Friday morning at the end of summer, turned around, made a heart with his hands over his own heart and threw it to me, music video style.
I smiled and gave him two thumbs up as he drove away.
I'll admit I was kind of overwhelmed for a minute and then I said out loud, "Fine, God. I get it. I'm not alone. Me and Mimi, and Rob Lowe and all the other parents in the world. I get it. I'm not alone. I'm not alone."
And I finally stopped crying, just as I pulled into the parking lot for my appointment.
Post a Comment