We went to my youngest son’s graduation a couple weeks ago. Now, he’s never exactly been a type-A world-beater, but graduation was a closer call than we anticipated— a real photo finish. We were reluctant to send out invitations, holding our collective breath right up until he came home the last day of school with a cap and gown in his hands.
So we went to the graduation and sat there like everybody else, trying to pick out our son in a crowd of about four hundred. I spotted him pretty quickly because I stayed home with him most of the time he was growing up (which may explain more than I’d like about why he almost flunked his senior year.) I know his shape, the way he holds himself, the way he walks. I know how he thinks— when he bothers.
It was a typical crowd for an area on the rural edge of the Atlanta sprawl. You could only hear about every third name when they were calling them up to get their diplomas because whole extended families…
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