Through a door & down the stairs & under the awning.

The bag was filled to the brim & the zipper tines held on for dear life as they held in hiking boots & scarves and shirts with holes in them and jeans that had patches in places where you would not normally find patches.

He placed the big bulky oversized bag by the door in the nook of the entry way & stepped back & sat neatly in the wicker chair that his father had made for him when he was ten saying, "one day you'll sit in this and think of me." And he did, every time. Especially this time.

Her car would pull up in thirteen minutes & then he would have to either walk through that door & down those stairs & under that awning & into her car so that he could travel the 3.8 miles to the airport that would take him to a place he had never been to live with people that he had never met or...he would just...sit. He would just sit & stare at the bag that represented his life here on this earth.

He stared at the bag & thought of his dad & wondered what he would do but he didn't know what he would do. So he just sat there & remembered building tree forts & digging through the gardens in the back yard & then he realized that he was all grown up & that the dirt from under his finger nails was gone & that so was dad & mom & the childish things of that before time.

Her car pulled up & he grabbed his bag & walked out that door & down those stairs & under that awning & he got into her car. It was time to go.