We have less than two days left.
Actually, it’s more like 42 hours.
But if you subtract out the girlfriend time, sleeping time and time for personal hygiene , it’s really only about 12 hours.
Twelve short hours left to spend with the Older One before he boards an airplane bound for the snowy north and the granite walls of the US Military Academy at West Point.
His clothes are clean and ready to be packed neatly in his plain black duffel bag. He’s visited with friends, exchanged gifts with family and enjoyed New Year’s Eve with his girl.
Now all that’s left for this momma is 12 hours…give or take.
And so, I start the fight. It won’t be a screaming, yelling, fist-throwing kind of fight, but more of a fight for more, more, more and a handful of one lasts.
The fight for one more game of hide and seek with his sister and one last meal cooked with love. Just one more conversation and another memory to hold on to for the next three months. One more workout with his dad. Another joke and a laugh. Even one last request for motherly advise.
I’ll fight for another stolen hug and an unaware smile. I’ll fight for that last perfect ending to an all too short 15-day visit…even though it is the longest we’ve had for a while.
Last night, the Young One, whose big brother hero let her claim victory in a Nerf blaster war earlier that day, lost her fight against the tears. She cried herself to sleep wishing he didn’t have to go away again, and as I held her close for comfort, I lost my fight too.
Save travels, Sweet Boy. Come home again soon!
***This post is brought to you today by Five Minute Friday and the word “Fight”.