On Sunday, at the end of his spring break, I returned one of my little chicks back to his school, the private military academy – Norwich University in Vermont.
It’s a joy having him home in the nest for a bit and always bitter sweet when he has to return. The trip is always the same, we stop at the border of New Hampshire and Vermont for lunch and then we continue to exit 5 where his school is located.
We walk up to his dorm, me asking if he’s allowed to use the front door or not. Rooks have all sorts of rules that they need to initially follow until they are officially recognized. I can’t remember if this “rule” has been revoked or not following his recognition.
“Yes, mom,” he replies, “I can do anything now.”
He carries his duffel bag, his computer, a box of food for his room. I am empty handed, doing what I can to help out by holding open the door for him.
The stairs are wide, covered in footprints of spring mud’s beginnings. “I’m sure they are going to make you wash these floors every day,” I say, wishing I could have that kind of power to make him wash our home floors each day. I’ve discovered that chicken coop mud tracks everywhere when the spring thaw pokes its head into our region.
The hallway to the room in which he lives is unadorned, white boards and white paint. Silent yet strong.
Just like his dorm room where there is industrial linoleum, issue drab gray (but insulated) curtains, more white walls, and two dorm desks each facing away from each other and toward a wall.
There are no pictures, no posters, no sign that an individual lives in this room – his equipment being the only decorations to the life he has purposefully chosen.
We hug, I give him a quick peck on his forehead – the spot I’ve been kissing since he was a baby.
“Take care, sweetheart. Always know that I’m proud of you.”
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Wendy Thomas writes about the lessons learned while raising children and chickens in New Hampshire. Contact her at [email protected]
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