We’re on a shimmering open road that smells of Summer, careening to some future place that pulls us forward, my youngest son and I. I’m fixated on him as he drives us, his cut jawline, runaway curls and strong hands on the wheel.
Bush, trees and blue skies fly past in fused colour that catches, bulges a thought, then lets go, shredding it to the wind. Sometimes thoughts pulse a pleasure that tingles into my being, or a pain that’s tissues into my gut. Pain that equals the end of something. It’s me and him hustling time out here, him and his music in joyous explosion at having written his last school exam ever. EVER.
I realise this is the moment where he leaps magnificently into the world, fully extended, drawing back on everything and reaching forward to everything else.
And I will always be his Mom.