Leaving

It's a spectacularly beautiful late afternoon in southern California. The wind chimes are dinging, the Mariachi McMansion music has stopped, the breeze is rustling through the palms and I'm lying on my bed with the sun slanting through. I'm reading Rachel Cusk's novel Outline. It's a novel for a day like this, a time like this, a person like me. It was Henry's last day of his sophomore year in high school. He took his last exam, appeared at home for a couple of hours and then left for his girlfriend's house. Perhaps I'm histrionic. His leaving -- for his girlfriend's house -- has made me think of all the leaving to come. I'm not sure how it happens, the cliche of time passing. The first day of summer marks an endless stretch of time when you're young. Henry lets the front porch gate slam shut when he leaves, and the wind chimes pause and rearrange their drift,  a current weaves down the hallway and collides with the air from the open back door and slams the bedroom door shut, the bang and my breath and my heart's beat and then just quiet.

Dang.