(Composed, as Wolcott Gibbs wrote in a different context, “after reading altogether too much of this sort of thing.”)
I stand at the college entrance gate, occasionally glancing at the other parents as they too part with their newly minted freshmen. There is an awkward embrace here, a heartfelt peck on the cheek there.
We spent five hours on the road, my boy Mikey and me. In the back of the car were his favorite shirts, his battered copies of various Harry Potters, the new laptop that was a graduation present. Mikey made the brave decision to leave all but one of his action figures on his bedroom bookshelf.
Mikey’s mother had wiped away a tear. Unbeknownst to him, she slipped two boxes of his favorite cookies into the trunk at the last minute as a surprise for later.
And I, a hackneyed, middle-aged columnist with nothing else to write about at the bottom half of August—when one should be on vacation and the world seems short of material—was gathering my thoughts.
Now all of Mikey’s precious cargo is in his dorm room and there is nothing left to do but to say goodbye. My son is 17 and ready to face the world.
I, on the other hand, am 56 and am not quite ready to let him go. For I am a hackneyed, middle-aged columnist with nothing else to write about at the bottom half of August—when one should be on vacation and the world seems short of material.
It’s a challenge, being a hackneyed, middle-aged columnist with nothing else to write about at the bottom half of August—when one should be on vacation and the world seems short of material. So one rhapsodizes about the passing of the generations—about when everything seemed possible and you couldn’t imagine high blood pressure, a mortgage, and mortality nipping at your clichéd heels.
As a hackneyed, middle-aged columnist with nothing else to write about at the bottom half of August—when one should be on vacation and the world seems short of material—I now recall that Mikey had been a hard delivery. His mother and I will never forget that dread afternoon when the doctor told us he might not make it.
Today, I know he is going to make it. And yet I still feel the need to protect him. And yet I can’t. Not forever, anyway. After all, I am a hackneyed, middle-aged columnist with nothing else to write about at the bottom half of August—when one should be on vacation and the world seems short of material.
The seconds are ticking by. Mikey is getting fidgety. I can’t help but notice. Those freckles that only God could have created. That infectious grin. Yes, the grin is a bit crooked; the orthodontist said it couldn’t be helped. Still, I know that even if his teeth won’t straighten out, Mikey will. For I have learned this wisdom as a hackneyed, middle-aged columnist with nothing else to write about at the bottom half of August—when one should be on vacation and the world seems short of material.
Now I recall when I left my own father and stepped into my Ivy League world. Dad had come up the hard way; he wasn’t one for sharing his feelings. When he bid me adieu, he simply shook my hand and said, “See you at Thanksgiving.” Then he turned and walked away from me. He never saw me grow up to become a hackneyed, middle-aged columnist with nothing else to write about at the bottom half of August—when one should be on vacation and the world seems short of material.
I am thinking about this when suddenly, Mikey says, “Guess I’m off. I’ll call later.”
He offers me his hand. At that moment, I realize that my father’s handshake just wasn’t enough. So as I reach across to Mikey with my own hand, I reach as well across the years and memories. Memories of when Mikey’s gerbil got loose in the den for an hour. Of when he fell off his bike and needed seven stitches. Of how I, a hackneyed, middle-aged columnist with nothing else to write about at the bottom half of August—when one should be on vacation and the world seems short of material—put my arm around his thin shoulders as he cried over his first crush.
Suddenly, I clutch Mikey tight. He is clearly embarrassed. “I love you,” I say, a bit too hoarsely.
I feel his embarrassment melt. “I love you too,” he whispers back.
And then he is gone. After watching him for a few moments I am gone too, wondering how I will explain to his mother that our Mikey has become a Michael, and that I have finally left my ghosts behind to become, at long last, a hackneyed, middle-aged columnist with nothing else to write about at the bottom half of August—when one should be on vacation and the world seems short of material.
