The youngest of two sons moved out today, from underneath my wing, where I’ve held him close for 19 1/2 years, leaving behind a clichéd empty nest and a massive void rapidly filling with uncertainties.
“He’ll be okay” I keep telling myself, “he’ll be with his big brother, they will both be okay.”
My reasoning assures it’s an ideal situation for my sons, this bachelor pad for two, who have shared brotherhood from birth. The laundry and dirty dishes are sure to mount and their beds will likely never be made; the floors might not be swept or mopped as often as they should and dust bunnies may take up residence in nooks and crannies, but their bond will strengthen as they nest anew, depending on each other.
I won’t be there to nudge them towards their chores, or to make sure they are safely home at night, but I know they will be okay.
Big brother, now 26, has been on his own for years now, taking life by the horns and making his Mama proud, but no matter how old he gets, or how well he’s living, there’s a sad, empty space in what was once our home. Now there will be two.
What’s a mother to do with those sad, empty spaces in her home, in her heart?