Movin' In

 Not long ago, just a week or so, our house was all aflutter because my wife's niece was heading out to the east coast to college. The opposite side of the world. Or the continent anyway. Much fuss was made about getting all those things that were important and necessary to life on the right side of the country packed up and stuffed into suitcases and cardboard boxes for the purposes of survival in an inhospitable land. A land without hair care products. A land without microwaves. A land without a Target within a quarter mile. 

It's an exercise in which I have participated a few times. Both as a mover and a movee. The significance of this ritual dawned upon me at the celebration of my graduation from high school. A family friend gave me luggage to mark the occasion. The message was pretty clear: You will be leaving. You may not be coming back. 

At least until Thanksgiving. 

Which was, for me at the time, untenable. I was not prepared to make the jump to hyperspace. As a result, all those boxes of my stuff that were so carefully packed and brought to the college that accepted me were loaded back into the family station wagon along with the brand new luggage that was never fully unpacked. 

Which is why I am certain that my parents probably had a running bet about the following year when I unplugged my stereo and put all those same objects back into the car for the trip to the college that accepted me for my second attempt at moving away. This one stuck, at least from the standpoint of my sticking around campus for five days at a time. I spent most every weekend back home with the mild excuse of coming back for laundry. And a visit to the girlfriend. And as a consequence I missed out on a chunk of what it might truly mean to be a freshman in college. 

When my son was ready to make his statement move to higher education, there was a part of me that wondered if he would break the surly bonds that had held him so tightly to his home. The place his mother and I made for him. We put his things in boxes. He stuffed some clothes in the bag we loaned him. Perhaps it was an act of mild doubt that did not provide him with actual luggage on my part, but once he was gone, he was gone. We made several trips to Target and nearby stores to fill out the dorm room he would be sharing with his friend from high school. When all was said and done, my wife and I returned to the Empty Nest of song and story. 

Over the past couple weeks, families across the country, nay the world, have been preparing for this syndrome. Buying towels. Opening and closing boxes. Beginning the journeys that will take that next generation to new places, meeting new faces and fitting their stuff in different spaces. My suggestion: Don't panic. It all works out. Eventually.