Saturday morning I put my 12-year-old boy on a plane. With him went two teddy bears, an iPod filled with heavy metal music, several comic books, his summer reading and a box of Swedish fish. He cried a little when it was time to go, excitement turning to a touch of worry, his last hugs before boarding the tightest ever. Later he would tell me that he calmed himself down by tricking himself into thinking that his mother and I were just a few rows ahead on the plane.
The jet pulled away from the walkway and my heart jerked. The plane taxied slowly, took a right and disappeared behind the terminal. My heart pounded. The black jet with the Atlanta Falcons logo raced into view on a far runway, nose up and wheels leaving the ground, and my heart cracked. I watched the plane jump and arc out over Boston Harbor, southbound and climbing, receding to a speck, taking my baby boy with it--and also carrying away the last hint of the illusion that I have a baby boy anymore at all.
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