I spent some of yesterday trying to dig up reasons to be happy about having one less person living in my house, and the bathroom cupboard was a big help to me. I felt no sentimental pangs about throwing away eight years' worth of orthodontic paraphernalia: wads of brace wax, a set of broken retainers, about a million little toothpicking devices, etc., etc. In a way I feel like I did when J first went to kindergarten: like I've opened a door into my foot. My foot hurts, yes, but the door is open. And I still have a boy at home to distract me from the ache. Four years from now will be a different tale altogether.

So now what will I do? I will go back to work. I've got a manuscript to edit, an anthology to finish printing out for the publisher, a box of tomatoes to can. I've got unmown grass and unwashed sheets and unpickled cucumbers. I've got a stack of western Pennsylvania books, a fat Roth novel I bought at a yard sale, a plethora of weeds, and Henry V downloaded onto my scary new phone in case I get stuck at soccer practice without a book. (This was one of J's last affectionate/ironic gestures before he left for college: "Here, Dawn, I got you something to read." He also decided I should own "Boyz in the Hood," but that's another story.)