For now, I am bereft. My child is gone. Again.

I am embarrassed, ashamed to be riding this pedestrian pain. As if it were unique. Rational. It isn't, but you don't choose pain. It finds you.

I know my pain is disproportionate, inappropriate. Especially compared to the truly cataclysmic losses others have suffered, or are facing. All over the world. Right here in our own family. Ah, a clue. 

I should be grateful for the gift of his being. And I am. I should be celebrating his progress into adulthood. And I do. He's happy and healthy. He's living his own life so well. He's thriving, achieving, independent and successful. I am relieved, filled with joy and pride.

And I am bereft. My child is gone. Again.

He's doing what I did at his age. What his father did too. In another city. In another world. Which is as it should be. Our parents barely seemed to notice. My mother couldn't wait for us to leave, was eager to abdicate motherhood as much as she could.

Not me. When he first left for college I was blind-sided by the pain of my empty nest. I learned to cope. Then he began his career here in Philly, moved into his own apartment, showed up whenever he wanted (couple of times a month, tops). For three years I was lulled into complacency.

This July brought the next career opportunity, exciting, special. Not far away. But. Not. Here. Outwardly I cheered, I helped, I tried not to step on increasingly grown-up toes. I didn't fall apart when we left him in his new apartment and drove home.

I didn't call, sent only the occasional necessary text or email. He called. When he had something to tell me. Or just wanted to talk. Inwardly I was okay. I thought. But I wasn't.

I was bereft. My child was gone. Again.

It's not about "too tight apron strings" as they used to say. It's a measure of how deep and strong is the comfortable, loving bond we share. Each time it's severed by distance, even for a few months, I am lost in a world of hurt.

I don't cling, I never did, I hope I never will. We encourage, support his independence. But we miss him fiercely. Maybe because we've always been The Three Bears, a tight knit only-child family circle. We genuinely enjoy each other's company.

Most parents say they can't wait for their grown kids to be out of the house. I think they're lying. If only to themselves. I applaud parental pride, equally appreciate the importance of separation, self-sufficiency, personal responsibility. We promote that credo ourselves.

But still. So many years, so much worry, so much love, so much painstaking effort. Yes, it pays off. But not without a steep price. The bonded family dynamic changes. Forever.

Much as we try to build walls against it, waves of pain roll over most of us when our children leave for good. The sea of life erasing our carefully drawn preservation of that loving past.

We all have different pain thresholds. Mine is low. After a while it will surge and I will be strong again. But for now, it's hitting me full force. Dragging me under.

I am bereft. My child is gone. Again.

So I understand better the joy in my mother's voice when I call, when I visit. Her motherhood instincts didn't resurface with aging and creeping decline. The underlying need to see, to hold, to love your child, no matter what stage of life, is ultimately primal. Hers never really left.

But ironically, when my own pain leaves so does a large measure of that understanding. Of patience for my mother's needs. I never want our son to call or come to us out of duty. I want him just as he is, comfortable with the give and take within our nuclear family unit. So far so good.

So why am I so devastated after each visit? Why can't I brush this pain away like dusty cobwebs in an empty basement? Because our basement --our home-- was full of life for so many years. Throughout his childhood and coming of age it vibrated with activity. Then it sat empty. As did I.

For the past week, it sprang back to life. And so did I.

Now it is empty again. And so am I.

Thanksgiving can't come soon enough. It's worth the pain.

photo taken by author's niece, given to author