Walk on

So, it's raining. I'm at the West Seattle end of the Vashon-Fauntleroy ferry, waiting. The ferry is in and I see the motorcycles speeding off the ferry and up the hill. The first "walk-on" folks straggle down the sidewalk, start to gather at the bus stop--kitty carrier in hand, a sleeping bag. One with a big box, one kicking at the ground. He must be coming, shortly behind the first off. He's got a lot to carry, it's probably slowing him down.
People were shocked that I'd let him walk on the ferry. What if something happened?
Like what? Really, bad things happen in places we think are safe. The ferry isn't exactly White Center at 2am, not that it keeps me from driving that way if that's the way I'm going at that time. I'm not really worried. Not really.
I see him, standing just beyond the park and ride, looking around, trying to figure out which way to go. He doesn't look only 12--almost 13. He looks like a kind of scruffy young man with a sleeping bag and a duffle. Well, he looks a little like a homeless teen instead of a beloved kid, back from a weekend at camp. He hates being hugged, but so what? I sqeeze him tight--let go before I want to.
Letting go is so hard. We have to, it's important. I want to hold tight. I don't want to let him walk on the ferry alone. I don't want him to grow up, move away and think of calling me as a duty. The measure of how we've done in the end, I think, might be how much they really don't need us.
And that maybe sometimes they call because they just want to say "hi".