Pig truck

The other day I was driving home from work behind a tractor trailer. As I passed it, I noticed it was one of those livestock trucks with the layers of vented stalls for animals. It was full of baby pigs. I wept openly and without abandon for those baby pigs. It was a beautiful, cool autumn day. The sun was shining. They were piled on each other sleeping. And I know they weren't on their way to an amusement park catering to baby pigs.

I will admit that although I claim to be unfazed that my oldest is in his last year of high school and about to commence on his own life without me, I think I am wrong. I think that while I know we will get along better when his life is completely his in its entirety, I have already been mourning the loss of my wee little boy. It has been years since he was small enough to carry, or cuddle, or hug without a struggle. My boy is a man. If I were abducted by aliens tonight, he would be able to carry on without me. He would survive. I am proud of that, I am sad for that, my heart breaks for that, my eyes leak over that. I certainly have two younger ones to continue all the nurturing on, but he is my baby. My first baby. The first child I held knowing it had grown in my garden. Thus, I will cry over pig trucks with no remorse. We will all know the real reason, but I will avoid it. Because I am not the first mother to have to let go, I will not be the last.