I suspect this is the last soccer season my son will be shorter than me. He’s been monitoring the gap between us for several years now, and it’s closing quicker than I ever imagined it could.
Dry leaves shower me and scuttle over the metal bleachers where I sit.
I’m one of few moms here tonight. It’s dinner time and I should be home getting ours ready. But his father came home from work just as we were leaving for practice, so his little sisters didn’t have to come with us, and he asked if I would stay and watch instead of dropping him off.
Often I say, “I can’t.”
Tonight I said I would.
They’re not really straddling the line between childhood and manhood, but sprinting over it so fast that they and the line and the earth around them all blur.
Rain sprinkles now, down from the dark clouds that roll across the sky, pushed ahead of the autumn wind that makes October just this way.
This season is not forever.
No season ever is.