Sam is seventeen now. He’s still playing hockey. He told me last week that he doesn’t think he’ll play in college. He wants to study mechanical engineering, maybe. Or something with his hands. He isn’t sure yet. He says that’s okay. I agree with him.
And five days a week, I still drive him to the rink after school.
Last Tuesday, I pulled into the parking lot at four thirty, the way I always do. He grabbed his bag from the trunk.
“See you at six, Mom.”
“See you at six.”
He walked through the main entrance, and I watched him turn left, toward the locker rooms. Then I looked down at the passenger seat.
His water bottle was sitting there. The blue one, with the dent in the side.
I sat there a moment. Then I picked it up and went inside.
I made it about halfway down the main hall when I saw Greg coming the other way, pushing a mop bucket. He stopped when he saw me.
