The Threshold

Crossing the Township Line

His broad frame fills the doorway. Unobtrusively, he sidles into my workspace, not waiting for an invitation, knowing he doesn’t need one. My office has no doors, only thresholds offering entry on two sides; the door is literally always open, and he knows, invitation or not, he is welcome.

I look up from my computer, smile, pause my thoughts, fingers stop typing. He either has something on his mind or nothing at all, searching for a reason to break up the monotony of the workday. He chooses to “stop by my office,” a mere flight down from his own workspace in my home, to check in, for an update, or to vent. We are temporary roommates co-existing in a familiar, comfortable pattern, that of mother and son.

Some days he crosses the threshold, choosing one of the two blue swivel chairs placed near the plate-glass windows which offer natural light while I write. Often, one chair is occupied by a gray striped tabby with white paws, curled up into the tiniest ball his bulky body will allow. My son offers the cat some gentle strokes, and in return, the cat murmurs sleepy appreciation. As he selects the empty swivel chair, I feel like a doctor with a patient or an accountant with a client positioned behind my desk; thus, we begin our daily chat.

But today is different. Today he does not cross the threshold. Instead, he leans casually against the wooden frame, not taking the step down into my sunken office but choosing to converse with some distance between us. Our days together have dwindled into just a few. Or maybe more. He hasn’t decided. I don’t push for finality because I am sorry to see him go. But this has to happen. I will let him decide the when.

When the workday is over, he packs the last of his clothes and belongings, heads out the door to his new apartment, a mere 1.2 miles away. I stand awkwardly by, offering to help carry items out to his car. He packs the vehicle like a man who has done this a time or two before.

With no traffic, I can make it to his new place - with a pizza to share - in six minutes; at rush hour, I might as well give myself forty-five minutes because traffic will be brutal, cars lined up like a snake in both directions, everyone trying to get in and out of the borough. A mere congested road dividing the townships where we reside. However, I won’t be visiting every day or even every week. This boy has lived independently before in major cities, hours and flights away. I can resist the proximity as I wait for an invitation.

My son’s new apartment is a bright space that suits him. The hallways are filled with aromatic smells resembling a hotel stay, little dogs barking intermittently behind locked doors, and other young professionals idly entering and exiting the elevator. Methodically, he has furnished and decorated to make this space his own. It feels right. He will do well here.

After his departure, I peak in his vacated room, at the debris left behind. Open mail discarded on his dresser, a pair or two of shoes that might have a permanent place here, remnants of his younger life moved carefully from his childhood home to recreate that room in my new home. Now the memorabilia will remain with me as a shrine to the first two decades of his life. The room will smell faintly of him for the next few months. I hope it lingers longer.

My phone buzzes, snapping me out of my reverie. My son is calling from his new apartment which I imagine I can see from my backyard, but there is too much foliage, too many trees blocking my view to his new residence, only 1.2 miles in the distance. I pretend I can see across the township line. I picture him on the phone, casually calling me with an update, something he forgot or something he still needs to purchase.

Instead, I think I’ll stay here tomorrow night.

Of course. You should.

An end…and a beginning. Just like that.