Adieu, Grover

Tonight, for the first time in 9.5 years, I heard Grover utter the words, "I'm not ready to go home yet."

Even with all of the drama. With all of the pain and anguish and hurt of years past, all I could remember was this summer, and my heart broke for him and for Woodstock. Siblings divided by fractured parentage, thousands of miles and 11 years. Siblings who share the same nose, the same birthday month, the same blond hair and blue eyes. Siblings who met 6 weeks ago and quickly developed a bond through a bear hug and a two-toothed smile.

Just before we left, Grover sat thumbing through the albums of photos of Woodstock, commenting here and there on how tiny she was. He selected six of the photos to take back with him - carefully preserved in a Ziploc bag inside a box.

As we went outside to load the car and depart for the airport, Grover stood off to the side, gazing at the Hobbit Hole next door. He nearly whispered, "I'm not ready to go home yet." It was followed by the pre-teen logic of how life would be better for everyone if we returned to the East ... it was hard not to agree with, "and then Woodstock and I could see each other a lot more."

I wondered, for the first time, how much of Himself's heart breaks every time Grover leaves. I saw myself in the same situation - if I was standing in the driveway readying myself to drop Woodstock off at the airport.

For the first time in 9.5 years, I wanted to cry as I drove Himself and Grover to the airport - for the brother Woodstock adores, for the son Himself must always bid farewell, for the redemptive summer we had - where Grover doted on Woodstock and Woodstock's very presence, her even-keeled, sunny nature thawed years' of buried icebergs that had capsized hundreds of other visits.

Adieu, Grover. May you resolve your fear of flying enough to visit more often.