Change

I wrote the last time about the first time he was home. It was so painful to have him come home and then to make the Sunday night trip taking him back. The first hour of the car ride home from CT was always in tears. It was something I did every Sunday. It was my time to cry. Then I cried through Christmas. He wasn't home. Then the tears came all the time. I'd cry coming home from work. I'd cry sitting alone in the living room wondering what he was doing. I'd cry when I got a raspberry iced coffee from Dunkin Donuts. When I cried during a physical, someone knew enough to call it grief. Grief. Not depression. It's not. He's happy. He's doing what he loves to do. As a mother, I couldn't ask for more. But grief hadn't entered my vocabulary until my doctor said it out loud. Maybe he was the only one who brave enough to tell me. But thankfully, through modern medication, I'm moving in a forward direction again. I'm not overwhelmed thinking about what I lost. He's graduated and next week he'll join the fleet. I'm prepared for the future and the good byes. I'm looking forward to the changes and the adventures. I'm ok. I made it through this rough spot. I wasn't prepared for what it would be like to lose one from the nest.