I walk past his room and sigh. It's a mess. It's always a mess. Clothes strewn about. Amp cords and guitar straps seemingly everywhere. His bed a frumpy mess. I walk in and start tidying up. I spot a guitar pick. I pick it up and smile. Over the years, I've gone from picking up toy cars to Lego pieces to Nerf bullets to guitar picks. I glance at the photos of his baby self on his bedside table and then at the posters of rock bands that have overtaken his walls. He'll be 14 next week. He's starting high school this fall. And then what? College? University? Who knows? But at that very moment, it dawns on me that I might only have four more years of this. Only four more years of him living under the same roof. Only four more years of stupid jokes and loud music and full-on bear hugs. I hear him run up the stairs, yelling: "Mom, wanna hear a song I just learned to play on the guitar?" And instead of telling him "I'd rather you clean up your room" like I thought I would, I take a seat on his unmade crumpled bed and tell him that there's nothing else I'd rather do.