Dylan’s Going To Be Here Without Me.
Dylan’s college orientation was filled with delightful surprises: students on stage, telling their stories; a two-hour volleyball game filled with endless laughter; a reassurance from the Dean of Students that made me laugh out loud – and nearly sob with recognition.
But the two-day event didn’t start well. Dylan left our Air BnB late – a full half-hour late – knowing that I couldn’t leave without him. We went to pick up breakfast at a local restaurant, and it was not good. And then, when I finally dropped him off to rush his luggage to the appropriate place, Dylan forgot his hairbrush.
If Dylan had short hair, maybe this wouldn’t have been a problem. But I have seen his nearly waist-length hair in the mornings. So I took it upon myself to locate his overnight dwelling and deliver the hairbrush to the front desk. There, if Dylan so desired, he could pick up said brush and take it to his dorm room.
When I was leaving the dorm, the student assistants pointed me out a back door for quickest access to our first orientation session. Finished with my task, I headed for that door and stepped outside.
And then time stopped.
I stepped into a courtyard that, because of its location, was beautiful but probably rarely used. A few chairs sat empty next to two untouched tables. Even amidst the greenery that surrounded them, the courtyard felt entirely unblemished. And it was – quite suddenly – dead quiet.
It was the first time I’d ever been on campus without anyone else there.
In a trance-induced slow motion, I walked silently through the courtyard, and it hit me like it has never hit me before: Dylan’s going to be here without me.
I saw him in my mind’s eye, moving silently through this courtyard, busily heading for class – his backpack slung over one shoulder, shoving a bagel into his mouth, a cell phone distracting his pace.
And he was alone, too, in my imagination. He was alone, but confident, comfortable with this campus, a member of the college community. He was living his life – and doing it without me, without teachers or a principal, without brothers or parents or grandparents. He was living successfully, independently, just walking through that space, going where he needed to go.
It only took a moment – ten seconds, maybe – for me to feel so strongly how Dylan will feel at college. My own past collided a bit with his future, and I saw all the positive, wonderful energy that would be his to experience.
And then I walked on, through two powerful, reassuring days for both parents and students alike.
The next day, as we were leaving, I purposefully took Dylan through that same back door, through the courtyard. This time, there were gardeners trimming the hedges, blowing the brush, clearing a pathway that was already clear. The tables were still empty, but the courtyard was abuzz with noise and life.
Dylan didn’t notice the space at all. But I watched him walk through that courtyard, leading the way, showing me how to get back to my car so that I could go home.
And in a few months, my home will be here, and his home will be there.
And thanks to that one, slow-motion moment, I think it’s going to be okay.