On Missing Nostalgia

A few days ago, Mark confessed something to me. While his confession was neither dark nor steamy, it still managed to get my pulse up a bit. Mark admitted that, with Eric on the brink of a new life in other places, he'd been spying that bedroom, imagining it as other places as well.

And, in what is either typical "Raglin" or typical "Jane" fashion, I hopped aboard that train while the heat from the last passengers was still simmering in its seats.

Next to the myriad warm-hearted mothers who carefully crafted life-spanning altars to their recent graduates, I am one ice-cold so-and-so.

I'm not sure why I am so void of nostalgia. Maybe it's because I'm the youngest of five and have the 17 childhood photos to prove it. Or maybe it's because I've always been more fascinated with the future than the past. Whatever it is, I tend to get over stuff rather quickly, which can be a good thing. Or not.

In the days leading up to Eric's graduation, I came down with an unusual bout of nostalgia and felt utterly helpless in its midst. I teared up at teacher conferences, stared at his senior pictures a little too long, and even dawdled over a discarded pair of his socks, hungrily breathing in scents that are best left to the imagination. In those few weeks, I even wondered--if only for a minute or two--whether I should whip together an "Eric" altar for the big day.

Of course, I didn't.

And now? Now I can't decide between October Leaf and Spiced Chai, one of which will be his new wall color, come September. Now, as I impatiently wait for him to move out, I wander into his room not to chat about his life but rather to spy the best location for the new lounger and love seat.

I have so moved on, and I'm pretty sure Eric has, too.

He leaves for Sweden in about three weeks. He's traveling there alone, without the aid or annoyance of a planned program. And, while I can be an icy-cold so-and-so, I still have managed to insist upon a few common-sense things before Eric leaves. He must, for instance, have a human contact in each of the cities he will visit. And, by God, he will have photocopies of his passport, license and bank card, stuffed deep into his carry-on backpack (another of my motherly requirements).

I'm not fooling myself, though. I know that, come July 6, when he boards the plane for Svenksa, I will once again feel lost and out of sorts. I know that this trip will represent yet another stage of his life, the one in which he begins to spin his own web, make his own life, find his own way. And I will be left behind in his dust, befuddled and bespeckled, adjusting my glasses to keep him in focus as long as possible.

It's good to know, then, that I'll have a brand-new, exceptionally comfortable and well-crafted leather chair to come home to, cozily tucked into the corner of what was once a young man's bedroom.