Working Will

I am such a bad mother. Really, really bad.

I only just now - in the dead center of August - found the photographs of my son's college graduation. Technical difficulties did mingle with maternal neglect. But, still, that's two months, that's a lot of time and space, y'all.

Anyway, here's the white haired gent who sat a few rows in front of me and my proud little family. Our seats had no view of the ceremony. We couldn't see a speaker or student or balloon. Watching the ceremony on line would have felt more immediate.

I trained my attention on the man dressed as a quintessential New England prep, practical shoes and all. But why him? Because that document, that paper resting on his lap, is his will.

Watching a man revise his will is a quiet but riveting act of theater.

His will looked to be a dozen pages, stapled and legal-sized. I loved when he'd pause. See the way he holds his pen with two hands, twirling the pen cap. He'd scan the crowd, and then, eventually, scribble words onto the will's margins. He made it look as natural as working a crossword.

It struck me as synchronicity. The documentation of endings.
The diploma. The will.
Both symbols of moving into the unknown. Prepared and yet clueless about what will happen next.