Moving Out

I am in the hall by the elevator, surrounded by boxes, a hockey bag, one of those pull-up bars that hasn't fit in the doorway of any of the places we've ever lived.

My son is moving out. His friends are waiting downstairs with the truck. The elevator door opens and I hand him the last box. “Thanks,” he says. “I’ll call you. Bye Mom.”

"We didn't even take a picture to document this," I say. My son is moving out! The whole process took less than twenty minutes. And nineteen years. "I should have taken a picture."

"It was too fast," he says. The elevator door closes.

Yes, it was.