Last fall, at the beginning of Calvin's first year on his dance studio's competition team, I took a picture of him rushing in through the studio door, dance bag on his shoulder, jacket trailing behind, because every time I sat in my car after dropping him off and watched to make sure he got safely where he was going I thought he looked so grown up and so professional. It's a grainy, unremarkable picture, but one that meant something to me alone. Here, then, is a capture of the new routine—walking through the basement door, no rushing required because traffic did not slow our arrival, and no bag required because the shoes live down there by the makeshift dance floor all the time now. It's a stark contrast, one that breaks my heart every time, but we'll be back some day, I dare to hope.