May stirs in her bed, her last sleeping-in day before the early rise of her summertime job. I try to type quietly as to not disturb her in her sand-in-the-hourglass morning of rest. She leaves Monday for the mountains, the kids at Camp Pondo need her, she tells me with a smirk.
Summer is at school for her very last Friday ever of high school, next Friday she will graduate and next Saturday she will be on a plane to visit a long lost friend in a distant land. And come ever-so-quickly in the fall, she's off to college.
I will pour myself joyfully into Jasmine the next four years and savor her still-left moments of being a young girl. But the opening ceremonies of this season of her life are upon us. Today I will only see her for an hour, I will pick her up from school and than drop her off at a sleepover birthday party.
and so it begins...
But I hate the term "empty nest". It's so dismissive of my continuing job description. May's first year at college she called me three to four times a week in the middle of the night. I'd awake in a panic assuming the worst.
"Hi mom, I wanted to tell you about my classes today."
And as I settled into my pillow and listened to her soft voice, I remembered college kids keep all hours...just like newborns.
So I'll tend to the nest, weave in new leaves and grasses, branches and scavenged yarn. I'll keep it warm and open.
And I'll keep my eyes lifted to the sky...because I know their wings will always fly them home.
