Open Road

My middle son was my right-hand man for about eight hours on I-95 North today. The car was packed with a couple suitcases and fishing poles, plus the littlest one and our pup were beaming from the back seat as we pushed off on our voyage. One look at Will in the passenger seat, and he looked like he'd grown an inch since he woke up. His dad and I, these days, are practically startled by how swiftly he has stretched in size to match his wit. Now that he is sixteen, we find ourselves in the stage of parenting that asks, "Can't we just stop time while we have him here at home?"

Zipping down the highway, his profile was framed by still-wintry woods, cityscapes, and blue sky, providing glimpses for the possibilities that lie in wait for him. His world view is as open as the road that stretched before us, but he is also as loyal as the trip is long. He has long been my trusty travel companion--he was the big brother who held baby bottles and passed cups of cheerios. Now, he's a mapper, a texter, and a distributor of cookies. Within the confines of our car, we listened to the same podcasts and an audiobook. We talked about school and family and complained about generalizations and people who speak in absolutes. The sun began to set in the last stretch, and he leaned back and took a nap. We were speeding to reach our destination, but my heart kept telling me that we all need to slow down.