My text to my son this morning: "Don't forget to apply to graduate."
His text back to me: "Haha yea whoops!"
Apparently it's not automatic that you arrive at the end of four years of college, all research done, papers turned in, exams taken, internships completed, and you get your cap and gown and diploma. You have to make an application to graduate. My son explained this to me months ago but I somehow just knew that the actual applying had slipped his mind.
The text I just got: "Did it."
We had dinner with a few dear friends at a restaurant last night, and one asked us whether our son graduating in a matter of weeks had taken us by surprise. Did we think the four years of college had gone by quickly?
"College?" my husband said. "I'm still wrapping my mind around the four years of high school."
He doesn't often admit to being as floored by the propulsion of years as I am, but it is indeed a millesecond blink, almost a magic trick. I mean, our daughter is already just about done with her freshman year of college. Didn't we drive her five hours north to her campus, our car brimming with dorm room paraphernalia and a girl determined to sleep through her nervousness, just yesterday?
There was a chandelier overhead at dinner last night. I tried but didn't really capture it's fairy light charm, coloring the gentle flux of our evening as we helped each other navigate the tides.