commencement

Somewhere in my parents' basement, there are photos of my high school graduation, rows and rows of high school students wearing caps and gowns in an unusual shade of purple unflattering to just about everyone.

But there were no caps or gowns yesterday at Gray's graduation, just girls in white dresses and boys in dark suits. We sat near the back, paging through programs, listening to speakers intone the traditional, comforting platitudes: your possibilities are endless, they said, commencement is not only an end, but also a beginning.

Still, mostly, it felt like an end. When Gray's name was called, he walked to the middle of the stage, shook hands with the headmaster and tucked his diploma under his arm. Then he went over to the side to stand with six girls and five other boys, the a cappella group, who've been singing together since middle school.

While the other new graduates filed out towards the back of the auditorium, the chorus went through all the songs they'd practicing for so long -- an Scottish folk melody, the school song, an ecumenical hymn. And, as their voices intertwined, sweet and true, as hard as I tried, I couldn't tell which one belonged to my son.