I often make allusions to time being an unharnessed entity that is content with sweeping everything and everyone along with it without their consent.
More recently I made an observation that:
“you can’t keep track of time, but time is surely keeping track of you.”
So when the time came for me to drop my son off at college, effectively handing him over to the world.
I felt something, but it wasn’t the gut wrenching, immobilizing pool of emotions that I imagined it would be.
Actually, I found myself being quite philosophical about the whole affair, between my multiple instances of time traveling. I kept harkening back to the past to recount how I arrived at this point.
It seemed like yesterday when I stood in the hospital room and maneuvered myself through the minefield of doctors as he forced his eyes open, looking nonplussed before letting out a high pitched wail that let me know that his lungs were in working order.
Hearing Dada uttered for the first time was a high like no other.
The minefield of firsts flashed before my eyes with shocking frequency before I crashed back into the present.
Realizing that this was/is the moment that we’ve been preparing him for his entire life.
To be consequential and leave his mark on the world.
To be a planet and not a moon, marching to the beat of his own drummer and forsaking those who would be inclined to derail what the Almighty has put away for his procurement.
Being sad about his progression to the next chapter of his life just isn’t logical, besides the pride and adoration that flows through me overwhelms everything else.