Bittersweet

My son left New Orleans, trailer hitched and full of belongings, dog in the pickup, en route to Oregon, his final destination this morning at 8:30. His wife, our daughter-since-October, has been living with us for two weeks. She began a job after a series of Zoom interviews that convinced the powers-that-be in a small Oregon city nearby that they’d be foolish not to grab her (true, that). Two weeks without him, adjusting. And he, left behind tying up all those loose ends—putting their house on the market.

Yes, they had been planning a move West before the pandemic. It was always on the horizon, but then Covid and an intimate family wedding rather than a NOLA send-off with friends and family from near and far. And a year that, instead of giving them a chance to say goodbye in full New Orleans splendor, slunk abashedly, away.

When I told Alex, my daughter-in-law, that I’m embarrassed to admit how glad I am to be a senior going through this time, she agreed saying, she’s not 20, she doesn’t have any kids, she could work from home throughout the quarantine—and she’s not in a high-risk group, either, with a smile. She also admitted that it feels like they, “left the party early.”

All I want is for my “kids” to be happy. Anyone with kids feels the same. It’s a selfish thing, really. There are so many reasons to be grateful, and our kids have real gifts. They are coming to jobs; they made this choice. But they are transplanting. And change brings growing pains.

When my husband and I moved here, it was a dream come true. Different. Adjustment, yes, but dreams stretch to fit when they’re good ones.

When Sam, my son, was getting ready to go to college, he said, “You know, mom, I’m working at a real disadvantage here as a writer. All the great ones have experienced suffering. You and dad have given me nothing but the good stuff.”

Time will tell how this move will evolve. Whatever happens, there will be a new chapter in his story.