Mid-morning on what promised to be a very hot day in Baltimore, MD.  I’m standing in the shade outside a dormitory on a college campus where my son has just finished three grueling days of a lacrosse tournament.  I’m waiting for him to pack, clean up the room and get the “all clear” that he can leave without any fines for damage or lost dorm keys so that we can begin the 8+ hour return trip to the equally hot Midwest.  I am not looking forward to the drive.  My only consolation is that he’s old enough that he can take a turn at the wheel.  And my only hope is that he took a shower before packing his gear.

At last he appears on the stairs lugging pillowcases stuffed with dirty laundry.  Fortunately his hair is shower damp so it promises to be a pleasant journey in that regard.  He folds himself into the front seat of what previously felt like a good-sized SUV.  We haven’t even left the campus and he’s asleep.

Once I get us headed West, I happen a glance over at him, head cradled on a Minnie Mouse “pillow pet”, knees touching the dashboard, brown fuzz on his cheeks and upper lip (apparently he didn’t pack a razor).

In a flash I’m taken back fifteen years.  I’m watching him in the rear view mirror.  Eighteen months old slumped in his throne of a car seat wearing scuffed boots and overalls.  Hair damp.   Asleep.