Graduation and Moving On

It was a lovely graduation— not the official university event, but the student organized party where they received their silver forestry rings.

It was a beautiful group of young people. (My son, at 27, had been considered a mature student.) They shone with the enthusiasm of having accomplished this, knowing they were moving on to a new career and often to new places.

Except my son, of course.

I struggled with the idea of attending. I even wrote the wrong date in my calendar, and my daughter had to gently correct and encourage me. I thought I was over the regrets about futures that would never happen, but this brought it all rushing back in. He should have been here.

In the end, we all went: me, Carson’s sister, his father and stepmother.

How could we not? His class had raised money for a bursary in his name. Carson’s name and his silver ring were on the plaque that listed the class of 2025. There will be another plaque on a bench outside one of the forestry building entrances, I think— I hope— where the students who vaped hung out. Future students might not have known him, but they might give him a passing thought, out on their smoke break.

Classmates and professors came up to us and told us how special Carson was. They spoke about his quiet leadership, his willingness to share his practical knowledge and mentor other students. When I visited the department to donate his iPad I’d heard similar, but also about his tendency to slide in just a little late in the morning!

Strangely, you often learn more about someone after they die. You get to see what they were like in other situations, through others’ eyes. I was contacted by a coworker from the carpentry shop Carson worked in for several years, and heard about the music he played and the topics they discussed as they put together cabinets. An elementary school friend told me how they still kept in touch for regular group on-line gaming sessions, despite being scattered across the country. I found out that he and his aunt had been working on the family tree on his father’s side.

Now his class will move on, taking memories of him with them.

I too will move forward, taking my memories, my grief and my love for my son with me.

Happy graduation.