Good-bye in 1987 meant something my 13-year-old daughter and 11-year-old son could never understand.
After my high-school graduation ceremony at Madison Square Garden, all 700 and something of my classmates milled around in the June heat, wearing our polyester green and white caps and gowns and looking for any reason to prolong our departures.
We searched for family and friends, hugged and posed for pictures that we’d probably never see.
When I was a teen, we had to make an effort to stay in touch
To see each other again meant being together, and not just on Instagram, Zoom or FaceTime. It would require the effort of making a phone call and a plan, then taking a subway or bus to a coffee shop, Central Park or someone’s apartment; hopefully when their parents weren’t home.