To borrow from the great Fats Domino, we’re walking to New Orleans.
That is, if walking consists of driving a red Jeep Cherokee that is already loaded to the gills before Aidan has put in all of his clothes.
He’s planning to wake up at 4:00 a.m. to put the finishing touches/cram everything in whatever space remains.
You get the idea.
Suffice it to say that my trip West to Stanford in September 1983 was just a tad different.
If memory serves, I had a large suitcase, a pair of middle-aged anatomically correct dolls Mom had just bought for me, and a poem she wrote entitled, “For Jeffrey Who Made Me A Mother.”
Mom signed the poem with her name, Alice Adelman Lowenstein, and then put in parenthesis the words, “your mother,” in case I had forgotten.
These are my memories of my experience.
But now, of course, it is Aidan’s time.
I’ve talked with others who have gone before me, and they confirm my feelings of time moving impossibly fast, of Aidan’s childhood and mine all having gone by in a blink, and of being firmly entrenched in the middle of my life.
On Sunday, Dunreith and I will say goodbye to Aidan, tell him we love him and make the return trip home to Evanston.
For the first time in our married life, it will be just us in the house. We will be empty nesters.
I don’t know what that will be like, and I do know that I feel fortunate that we’ve had the time that we have, with the first stage of Memphis tomorrow.
The walk starts in six hours.