The first week of May 2024 was a big one. Not only was it the final rehearsals for my play; it was my last week of high school, the week I turned 18, and when my family sold our old property in Indiana. And, in a manner all too metaphorical, the week an owlet in our yard flew away.

We were very excited when we first learned an owl had made a home with us. It felt special that this magnificent bird had chosen our tree to settle in; that we had a bit of the wild with us in our neighborhood. But a big part of this excitement was also for my sister, Tinsley.

Tinsley loves owls, mostly because of Harry Potter, a series she has loved since before she could read. It’s easy to find evidence of this love while looking in her room: clay owls on the desk, a painting on the wall, and a stuffed grey owl named Cocoa that she takes everywhere.

This meant that our excitement was already at an all-time high when a small puffball with a beak and shadowed eyes emerged from the nest. An owlet.

In the next few weeks, we had visitors, dog walkers and bird watchers standing with their heads up in our yard, looking for a glimpse of our local celebrity.

Though some worries were had for our cats’ safety, we enjoyed our feathered guests. It was an exciting topic of discussion, a dinnertime mention of the owlet’s growth or the couple’s coparenting. The three sat by our entrance like guardsmen, and gave our household easy entertainment as we watched them fly back and forth from different trees and call to each other as they passed.

Then, suddenly, they were gone. And, suddenly, I knew I would be gone soon too. I live in the carriage house of our home, so I’ve been separate from my family for a while, and I’ve been independent since I can remember. It’s been a slow transition into moving out, but there’s nothing that can prepare you for the final step. Like the owlet, taking a final leap the same week I did.

I was struck immediately by this similarity, the kismet of the two of us going off on our own; leaving the same house. I tend to see metaphors in monotony anyway, looking for patterns that aren’t really there. But for my melodramatic mind, at least, this one was clear. The poem seemed to write itself.

The two of us leaving our home on highland avenue, flying away. Our parents knowing that we had to, because they too had left home. The fear and odd comfort of knowing people are watching you, looking out for you.

As I write this, I’m flying on a plane from Berlin. From a trip without my parents, far from Mapleton. So I hope as I have my flight, our Owlet has his as well. That he is having adventures, too. But I also hope, someday soon, he flies home to his family. As I am, and as I always will.