He’s getting older and I am getting old. He doesn’t want to talk so much these days, and I want too much to talk with him. He is fine, even when he is not, and this we have in common.
He is a man in ways he may not recognize. He is young, and he has the benefit of choices, a terribly scary burden. He is excited to make them his.
He is my son, and he is tied to my life. He is his own, not yet on his own.