Graduation Day

By Renee Hawkley

(This article was first published in May, 1986, reprinted in Reader's Digest in May, 1989 and continues to be asked for.)

I never thought it would come to this.

Our oldest son is graduating from high school. The eighteen-year-old whirlwind is about to relocate.

One day soon, I will enter his "untouchable" room. I expect to find out once and for all what causes that persistent smell . . . an intriguing aroma best described as something between sweaty socks and peanut butter cups. I will rummage through the pile of whatever-it-is on his bed and unearth the pair of matching sheets. After laundering them, I'll put them back on the bed just like they looked in the catalog I ordered them from. I'll put the matching pillowcase on the pillow, breathe a grateful sigh that the blanket his Grandma Thomas hand-quilted for him is still intact, and align the lengthwise part of the bedspread with the lengthwise part of the bed.

I will go through the stuffed bottom drawer of the chest and count the candy-bar wrappers. I will marvel that its owner has never had a cavity.

I will hide the weight set in the closet and examine several gouges in the walls made by one sports apparatus or the other. Yes, I know. It was an accident, Mom. With any luck, my husband and I will be able to fix most of them with spackling compound and a can of paint.

I will vacuum corners, scrub walls, disinfect mopboards and shine windows. I will confiscate, eradicate and eliminate all dust-ball families that have been breeding with the gum wrappers and dirty combs under the bed.

Then I'll organize the stamp collection and baseball cards for storage. I'll gather all the camera parts and put them in their little compartments in the camera case. I'll bag pairs of holey sneakers for the garbage can. Then I'll close the door, fully expecting to open it later to the organized sight I left behind.