His lower lip trembled and tears filled his eyes. He begged me not to leave him, but I knew I had to before I lost it too. The door to his kindergarten class closed and God how I wanted to turn around and drag him away, back to me, back home where he belonged.
I don't remember walking to the car or starting the engine, but I do remember I cried all the way home. Later, my son came home with a brilliant smile and handed me a crazy Crayola picture. Through my tears
If we love someone, we learn to let them go, even if they're only five years old on their first day of Kindergarten or their first time on a bike without training wheels. Though the circumstances are different, the ache of loss is the same whether you're facing the end of a shattered relationship, or holding the hand of a loved one whose time is at an end.
Letting go never gets any easier.
Leaving my son that first day of kindergarten nearly broke my heart, but the day we left him for college seemed far worse. We'd had him for eighteen years. Letting go meant our time apart would stretch from hours to weeks, and that nearly ripped my heart out. I couldn't do it. But I did. And when he graduated from Arizona State at twenty-two and left to start his career hundreds of miles away in Los Angeles, I wanted to crumble into a little ball and disappear at the thought of not seeing him for months at a time.
Every time I let go, it's that same sinking feeling, as if you're letting go on that first day of kindergarten. Being a parent isn't for the faint of heart. No, it never gets easier each time his fingers slip from mine.
Until next time,