By Amy Keyes 
Every night, without fail, my 17-year-old makes a smoothie before he goes to bed. It doesn’t matter what time it is, maybe 10 p.m., maybe 1 a.m. He’s done this for as long as I can remember.
While it often wakes up our entire house, it’s the reassuring nod to tell me he’s home safe. To remind me that his presence is still here. And, these days, I don’t take that for granted.
This senior year is such a mixed bag of emotions. And for the past few months, I honestly have been so focused on the way it impacts me, that I sometimes lose sight of the most important person that feels it . . . him.
As a super emotional, wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve person, I lay it all out there. More than I want to. More than I should. I cry at the drop of a hat these days. I find myself constantly in those Father Of The Bride moments when every time I look in his direction, I see all the versions of this almost-adult movie montaged through time.
Right now, I’m an over-presence in a time of his life when he is trying to figure out his own direction. Asking too many questions . . . staring for a bit too long . . . reaching in for the hug one too many times.
The thing I’m realizing is that while I’m over here feeling all of my feels, he is too. He might show it differently. He might not necessarily be able to articulate the magnitude of it yet, but there’s no doubt he is living in the realization that his year is now full of lasts.
I remember those days. Trying so hard to live in the moment while also figuring out what lies ahead. Knowing that the years of familiarity are about to give way to something unknown. Feeling all those lasts with my whole heart as I realize that life is a series of closures that lead to new beginnings that the light hasn’t illuminated yet, so it still feels scary. For him, even more so than for me, this year is an hourglass ticking away the time of his childhood that encompasses everything he has always known.
So when I hear that blender start to whir, I know it’s more than just a nightly snack. It’s a sense of normalcy. A routine that reminds not just me, but also him, that he’s still here. Present in the moment of childhood. Safe to make noise at whatever hour he needs to. Filling that smoothie cup with the sweetness of moments and memories that will soon be glimpses of his past to look back on and relish.
I often wonder what it’s going to be like next year when I don’t hear that nightly whir. When the sound of silence wakes me and leaves me wondering what he’s doing in whatever his next chapter brings. There are so many unknowns that lie ahead.
I imagine I will be making myself a lot more late-night smoothies in the year ahead. The whir of the blender, a reminder to myself that wherever he is, he will be okay. That this is the way life is meant to unfold. We hold on, and then we let go.
And I’ve decided that a blender will be a perfect addition to his graduation gift.
by Jennifer Kennedy 
by Tanya Teichroeb 
by Savannah Lyon 
