Growing Old

After a few tender Mothers’ Day texts, E’s mood plummeted.

I didn’t see him for most of the day: When he wasn't with friends, he was cloistered inside his room. I chalked it up to hormones, or disappointment about losing the last lacrosse game of the season.

When I asked him what was up, he said he was tired. I pressed, and it didn't take much for him to remind me that this marked the third year—to the day—since his closest friend had died. The boy’s mother had hosted a memorial brunch for all his friends, which, achingly, fell on Mothers’ Day. E. spent half the morning there.

Digesting death is difficult at any age. At 13--E's age when he lost his buddy--it is incomprehensible.

“It gets easier,” he said, yelling over the music that his headphones were pumping into his ears.

So young and, so old.