A fistful of series conclusions have us in our feelings

My oldest son graduated high school last week.

Every cliche about how this feels is true. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the weight of him sitting on my shoulders, asleep after a long day at Disneyland. I can still feel the weight of him in my hands as the doctor passed him over to me, before the cord had even been cut. It feels like last week that I would read him a story every night from his big Dr. Seuss collection, hoping he’d pick Yertle The Turtle because it’s the most fun one to read out loud. It’s been mere days since he learned to read with a series of orange books about Frankenstein and Dracula and Godzilla. I just took him to see his first movie in a theater, didn’t I? How is he about to start film school in the fall? It does not seem possible that he is about to be a legal adult. It is fucking me up royally, and part of the process of reaching this milestone is letting him start to step away.

I just didn’t realize it was going to hurt this much.