I was stuck at work when it became apparent that my son was moving in with us, more quickly than he or we had anticipated. My wife went to get him and bring him home.
It was 7 pm on a Friday. The sun was making its slow decent in the western sky. I lowered my visor and squinted at traffic. The air conditioning blasted its protest over the June heat and the man-child sniffled quietly in the seat beside me as his hometown slowly faded into the distance behind us. For a moment, I remembered him as a small child hiding behind his father. Now his tears were falling from a face hidden behind long hair; the last vestige of the childhood of a boy trying so hard to become a strong man.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” I asked him, “Knowing that your entire life will fit into one car.”
He laughed, a little bitterly. “Yeah.” he said, “Yeah, it is.”
I squeezed his hand reassuringly and we drove for a while without speaking.
Later, he asked “Will you cut my hair?”
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