Inside the house, it’s too quiet now. It’s empty except for me and Betty Boop.

It isn’t quiet outside.  It’s one of those autumn days that seem to predict that winter is only a few days away.  The wind is howling in the pine trees and the roof resounds with the thud of pine cones as they are swept from their moorings, making them easy fodder for the squirrels to harvest. The day is a crazy quilt of bright fall light and sudden dark overcast as the clouds go scudding by the sun, propelled by an oncoming cold front which is forecast to bring us an early dusting of snow tonight.  I spend a futile few minutes trying to sweep out the garage.  The wind has filled it with leaves, pine needles and great dusty puffballs of fur left over from the dog’s last brushing. Each gust of wind swirls the detritus back into the garage and before long, I give up, defeated by the howling autumn air.

I watch you trudge back and forth from the house to the car, laden with all the necessities of a college life: your clothes, cleaning supplies and of course, the TV and stereo. You moved out last year to go to college, but I’ve been spoiled by having you back again this summer and fall while waiting for your new apartment to be ready. So, it’s kind of like starting the empty nest thing all over again.  It’s harder than I thought it would be. Much harder.

Next, it’s time to tear out all the faded and frost-shriveled flowers. Their drooping faces match mine as I pile their still green and tender carcasses into the trash can; a sad harvest, indeed. Wasn’t it just last week when I felt brave enough to plant them, being fairly sure the killing freezes of winter were over? A few courageous tomatoes cling to skeletal vines and I gather them to finish ripening indoors. I pause and watch as a giant crow struts across the road, oblivious to the wind and flying debris. He seems to be an omen of a hard winter ahead. Fall, in her gorgeous robe of gold, is usually my favorite season, but this year, I feel unease instead of exhilaration.

It’s right and important for you to get out on your own.  I want you to be independent and learn the ways of the world. I don’t want you to know how bereft your leaving makes me feel for that old adage is true: You have to love someone enough to let them go.  So, as is right and proper and completely healthy, you gather your things and go.  I fuss about whether the electricity and heat are turned on in your new place and how you’re going to blow up the temporary mattress without a pump. Wouldn't you like to take some folding chairs since there's no furniture in your new abode yet?  And you are so patient with me. “Mom,” you say, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”  

Later, I walk through the leaf-carpeted woods with the dog and zip my fleece up to my chin against the unseasonal chill. The indisputable truth is that my depression and anxiety issues have been creeping closer and closer throughout the past few months. Now that the grand labor of the 40^th reunion is finished, there seems to be nothing to take its place. My job is overwhelming, I’ve been sick lately and in pain from my mouth for months.  There seems to be no respite. Then my cell phone buzzes with a text, “Thanks for everything mom. I love you.”

No, thank YOU for everything. I love you more...