Out of one eye I saw him, clambering up the steps in the semi-darkness, lighting his way with an opened MacBook.
I blinked until I could make out the clock:
Our son, back from college, was calling it a night.
The downstairs is still filled with dirty laundry, grocery bags brimming with athletic shoes and stackable boxes filled with books and papers whose contents are a mystery to me. We picked him up Friday after the end of his first year, and now we're feeding him mass quantities of home cooking and ministering to his separated shoulder, which would have healed, he says, had there not been one last Ultimate tournament. All is as it should be.
You send them off boys. They come home bats.