She opened the email from the school district to read the notice that her order for his high school graduation cap and gown had been confirmed.
It wasn’t even Christmas, not even Thanksgiving, let alone June, a whole eight months off.
A long ways off.
And just like that tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over such that she could not see the computer screen.
Because it wasn’t a long ways off.
There would be the last dance, the last test and paper written, the last picture in the yearbook, the last pitch thrown, the last trip to the plate.
And just like that he’d walk across the stage, receive his diploma, stand with his classmates, and move the tassel.
Just like that.
Just like that, time, moments that seemed like forever, had become memories, slipping quietly away.
Oh, there were the loud, uproarious, not-quite-at-all times, like when mom, dad, aunts, and uncles stood and cheered loudly as he scored the first ever run in his team’s history, all of his teammates but six years old.
How could it be possible that from crossing home plate to crossing the stage, this all could happen, just like that?
There was the quiet time in Santa’s lap. He didn’t feel well, leaning up against the jolly fellow’s red coat and white beard that matched his own red sweater and white shirt. The big guy peered through his spectacles at the tousled hair of the little guy who didn’t answer when asked what he wanted for Christmas.
He wanted to be held just for a moment.
She would hold him too, dressed in his cap and gown.
Just for a moment.
Just like that.
