I said goodbye to my son, Earl, this week. I took him to Melbourne, Australia where he has a part in a film. He turned eighteen on the plane. I stayed a week to settle him in, then we said our farewells and I took a flight back to the UK. My son’s life is unfolding before him at a tremendous rate. He is a rocket roaring into space. I am the launcher, the scaffold that has held him in place, falling away, as he blasts off into the unknown. On the plane back the ache is epic and unkind and necessary. I Google Empty Nest Syndrome. I flick through a book on Gustav Klimt. I write this Stuff Post with no other purpose than to stay attached to my son. I look at the vast, dark sky out the window. I draw a dress.
Painting is Mother and Child by Gustav Klimt. 1905
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