Been Here, Done That

It's odd that our eldest son has been -- and gone -- already. That he called this flat here in London home for awhile.
But then moved on.
You can still feel him here. See him in our little office on the Mac, editing his videos. Or lying on his bed, watching a show on his lap-top. Opening the fridge, looking for something to eat.
Where did those months go when he lived here? And those weeks that he went to work with me as an intern?
The Christmas party we were all at.
I'm going to work tomorrow. But he won't be coming.
They've got a whole new batch of interns there now. Don't know any of them. Don't talk to them any more.
We still call our spare room here, his room. And he left stuff here, like he always does wherever he goes these days.
A movie poster from the show he worked on, the basketball we bought him when he arrived, the one he went to shoot hoops with a few times at a park down the road.
It feels like his room still.
But he's gone now.
He's done a month at his internship-job in Rome now, just started his second month today.
He's enjoying it. He's doing well. We're proud of him. I bet he'll stay awhile.
He's onto his new life.
Which wouldn't have happened if we hadn't moved here.
Back to Europe.
But we're here, in London.
And he's there, in Rome.
Which sounds close. But really isn't.
A world away.
We'll see him this summer again.
He's onto his new life.
Which is how it should be.
But still. It hurts.
Because after all those years of caretaking, what is your life?