The rhythmic drag and snap of tape leaving the dispenser woke me late in the night. Light from the living room came down the hall and into our bedroom. He must have finished reading Beowulf, his current assignment for AP Brit Lit, and was now tackling the creation of his senior board, taping, taping, taping photos of his life onto a display destined for a showing among all the other seniors' boards at the home cross country meet in just two days. I got up, groggily, the same way I'd done in the night when he was that squeaky newborn seventeen years ago, came down the hall, sat on the couch and watched him, looked at him there taping his story to a board, looked at those images that captured him in time across the span of years. It was just he and I there in pools of quiet light, darkness surrounding the little house. His deep voice answering my soft, (slightly wobbly) one, as we reminisced about those times when he caught that big salmon, when he ran his first race, when he let a girl straighten his long curly hair, just for fun.
He's becoming a man.
Two roaster ovens full of chili are out in the larder, ready for their final simmer later today when this man/boy brings close to fifty runners and coaches home to the little house for team dinner. Eighty cinnamon rolls will be delivered from a friend's kitchen this afternoon to go with that chili, because, come to find out, if you live in Wyoming, you can't serve chili without cinnamon rolls. For those of us who were born and bred in northern Montana and prefer to keep the cinnamon rolls for dessert, there will be a heap of Fritos, a tub of sour cream, and bowls full of shredded cheese and chopped onions for toppings. Stacks of cups will perch beside deep coolers of iced tea and water, and we'll bring out every bench, chair and stool we own, but mostly, we'll offer our big lawn on which to sit. Nellie will be thrilled beyond all former thrills that all these people are coming just for her. We'll let her think that, then give her a butcher's bone for blissful distraction.
I'll dip, scoop, and serve, making sure everyone has enough. And I'll be writing in all down in my mind as I do. Their faces, their voices, their laughter. This group who've run miles with him, who've cheered him, who love him.
This final year at home feels a bit like jumping off a cliff.
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