Sentimental Journey The last day of school

I remember what my son looked like the first day of school. He was just a little slip of a man back then. His red and blue Mickey Mouse book-bag hung limply from his shoulder. His new Nike tennis shoes were still gleaming white. He looked out the window of the preschool sobbing as I left. I shuffled to my car, wiping my eyes, wondering if there was something I could've done to make this easier.

That's what I was remembering as I sifted through the file labeled "Michael: high school" that I began four years ago when we moved to our latest home. I also uncovered a heap of photo doubles that overflowed from the sides of a big old cardboard box.

I know so much is missing. Somewhere in this big house is the time capsule he created in fifth grade with his projections for senior year. I also have "Precious Items" envelopes containing art awards and projects from each year of his life. I don't know where those things are. Some day I'll find them, maybe when I'm packing up for the nursing home.

So I made do with what I had. The high school file with awards I'd forgotten, projects he'd composed, band programs too numerous to count, a lifetime of one boy, I guess you could say, a boy who matters more to me than the air I breathe. I made two tri-folds with the contents.

The scrapbook began innocently enough. First I scoured through old photos, finding the important ones. The ones of him brand new from the hospital, all 5 pounds of him. The ones of him at Halloween as a Power Ranger and a dinosaur. The ones of him at Christmas, as a tiny babe, or a strapping teen. The ones of him at birthday celebrations with dramatic themes and giant cakes. The ones of him with his dearest friends, his beloved grandparents, his sweet little sister, his adoring dad, even me, when I wasn't playing photographer, which wasn't often. I had to compile them for his graduation party.

I wondered what his bandmates thought when they trudged through the family room mess to the basement. There I sat, amidst papers and glue, scissors and boxes, photos and awards, trying to make sense to an outsider about how terrific this kid is, how he is everything I ever dreamed he'd be and so much more.

My boy came in from the high school on Friday, the last day. The scrapbook and tri-folds were propped against the wall. His lessons and exams were completed, too. He wore slim jeans and a black rock-'n'-roll T-shirt. His dark brown hair, once cornsilk blonde in childhood, was cut in a short style that showed off the baby blue of his eyes.

"Can I get a picture of you with your backpack?" I asked, again holding the camera, while this weird lump formed in my throat.

"I don't have much time, Mom, " he said as he dropped his trumpet case by the door.

I knew he was busy. He had important places to go, people to meet. Before long he would be packing up his gear to head to college, taking all the stuff I complain about: the cords and amplifiers, the sheets of music, the guitars and sweatshirts, the junk that is scattered throughout the house.

I snapped a picture hastily, then studied the six-foot young man as he walked to his grandfather's old blue Cadillac.

I'd never forget what he looked like on the last day of school either. Not ever.