Fresh air is fuel. I took a walk around the park in my neighborhood the other day to feel the invigorating breeze of early autumn and to clear my head. My son has been away at school 800 miles away for about two months now. Parents’ weekend came and went. We already had plans to visit later in November to go to a Packers football game, so it certainly wasn’t feasible or realistic to go twice in a matter of a few weeks. It sure feels like he has been gone much longer than eight weeks. I miss him so.

It was an unusually quiet morning in my neighborhood. There were no joggers or strollers or dog walkers in sight. There was a heaviness to the air as we awaited storms, and the quiet was a bit eerie, on brand for the season. The humidity was thick this October morning, a strange disconnect from the promise of fall on the calendar. I did see one dad in the park with a little boy adorned in a flop of curls peeking out beneath his little blue baseball cap. He toddled around the park, smitten with the birds fluttering in the trees. He chirped when they chirped and fell into a fit of ever so sweet giggles. He kicked around newly fallen leaves, an admirer of all that surrounded him. We must have felt the first trickle of rain at the same time as we both put out our hands to feel soft raindrops beginning to fall.

The little boy caught a glimpse of me at the same time and beamed. It’s almost as if he said, “Watch this!” as he leaped into a small pile of leaves. It made me realize all the wonders of being a small child. And I reflected on the days of being with a small child, admittedly with more nostalgia and amnesia as I banish the memories of the realities of those hard days.

It doesn’t, however, seem so long ago that my own son, the one who’s in another time zone for college, was at that toddler stage looking so eagerly upon the world with wide brown curious eyes, constantly pointing and asking me, “What’s that?” Now, I’m the one peppering him with questions, eager for a small glimpse of his life away from home where I’m not privy to his goings-on. It is the trajectory we want for our children, and it’s the right path, but the taste of growing up is bittersweet. I must have slowed my pace as I saw my son’s face in that little curly-headed little boy’s. My heart hurt a little, but a smile found its way to my face. I might have wiped away a tear, or maybe it was a raindrop. We’ll never know.

The little boy waved excitedly to me and yelled hello as I walked past across the park making my way home. His dad scooped him up and gave me an apologetic shrug. I smiled so big my jaw ached. It was in that little boy that I saw the passing of time manifested. In a moment, the past, the present, and the future mashed into a kaleidoscope of memories, what-ifs, and what-will-bes. Those trappings of toddlerhood and the ferocity of teenage years swelled with a vision of the future as I watch my son grow into a confident, joyful young man who is still driven by the same curiosity he had as a child. And when I do visit him in a few weeks, I’ll take his hand and point to things all over campus asking, “What’s that?”