Paint

The paint was purchased, a bright, cheery yellow.  Covering the dark teal walls with yellow was going to be a feat but I was ready.  Or at least I thought I was.  I was okay disassembling the bed and storing it in the basement.  Packing up the last remnants of boyhood was tough.  Bike locks, sock monkeys, endless Lego pieces, books, drawings of SWAT guys and police cars.  And guitar picks, so many guitar picks.  But I barreled through, trying not to think about the Christmas morning that we built the coolest Lego train on the planet.  Or how, at bedtime, I’d crawl up in his bunkbed and we would read Grover’s Bad Awful Day together.  I managed to throw away most things but boxed up some memories to keep.  And plugged away.  As I began to paint, covering the scuff marks from skateboards and gouges from guitar amps, more memories surfaced but I was okay.  I was handling it.  I really was.

Then it hit me.  As excited as I was to finally have a home office, this was no longer going to be his bedroom.  That boy “smell” that always seemed to fill his room was fading.  This season of my life was complete.  My youngest has left to start his adult life in another state.  This is the longest I’ve gone without seeing him in his entire life.  Washing the paint brushes, the tears finally came.  I get it, I really do.  We raise our children to leave us.  That’s life.  I’ll be fine.  But right now, I just need a few moments to be sad.  To just miss my boy.

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