Four years have flown by since my son graduated from South Whidbey High School.

Wasn’t it just a couple of springs ago that a group of very sad senior moms and dads sang a fond farewell song to their kids at graduation?

In a few weeks the Class of 2002 at SWHS and Bayview High School will be history. Their paths will be as divergent as their personalities; their upcoming adventures will bring both pride and pain to families and friends.

When my son decided to attend college back East it was hard to picture him living on the other coast. Boston is approximately 2,500 miles from Seattle as the seagull flies — how would he survive?

Well, he made it, as did I. And surprisingly, the transition wasn’t that tough. When people asked if I was having a rough time adjusting to my son being so far from home, I felt somewhat guilty when I replied, “Not really.” It turned out to be a great ride.

Last week my son graduated from Boston College. This time, there were no parents singing sappy songs to their students, no familiar faces in the crowd. In fact, I could barely pick him out of the crowd of black caps and gowns spread out in the Monday morning sun. Cell phones rang, parents waved, students cheered. It was somewhat surreal. The big day was finally here — a new life would soon begin.

In June of 1998, I wrote a column in honor of my son’s high school graduation. Here is part of that “letter” to my dear little boy, who four years later has turned into a delightful young man. My thoughts haven’t changed.

“Dear Max:

“One of the things moms do best is cry. Births, deaths, weddings, funerals, sad movies, sentimental songs and warm and fuzzy commercials can bring on a tear from even the toughest female hide. So I hope you and your classmates will indulge us during your graduation time.

“This morning I walked into your bedroom, knowing in less than three months it would never be quite the same. Clean, yes. But the similarities end there. The little boy who called this room “home” for almost 18 years will no long be slamming the snooze button on the alarm. Heaping his dirty/clean clothes on the floor. Or wondering how the index cards for his term paper disappeared into thin air. Try under the bed.

“Amazingly, I don’t have anything profound to say as you prepare for the next installment of your life. I’m proud of you. I’m happy for you. And excited about what lies ahead. But I’m also grateful to you.

“How else would I know about Charlie Parker, Duke Ellington, Stan Getz, John Coltrane or Lester Young? You introduced me to the world of jazz, and it’s become an important part of my life. And I probably wouldn’t have started reading the sports page every day if you hadn’t been around. Now I can hold my own with the best of the baseball bunch.

“Traveling through your true blue eyes was the wisest way to see the world. Whether we were backpacking in the Olympics, cruising our way to the top of the Empire State Building or watching the Baltimore Orioles play at Camden Yards — it was a whole lot of fun.

“When you were little, Max, your dad and I read you a story and a poem every night. It was a quiet way to wrap up the day. So I’ll finish my letter with one of your favorite childhood books, ‘Goodnight Moon.’

“And thank you for being such a wonderful son. Sleep tight.

“Love, Mom”

In the great green room there was a telephone

And a red balloon and a picture of the cow jumping over the moon

And there were three little bears sitting on chairs

And two little kittens and a pair of mittens

And a little toyhouse and a young mouse

And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush

And a quiet old lady who was whispering “hush”

Goodnight room, goodnight moon, goodnight cow jumping over the moon

Goodnight light and the red balloon, goodnight bears, goodnight chairs

Goodnight kittens and goodnight mittens, goodnight clocks and goodnight socks

Goodnight little house and goodnight mouse, goodnight comb and goodnight brush

Goodnight nobody, goodnight mush

And goodnight to the old lady whispering “hush”

Goodnight stars, goodnight air

Goodnight noises everywhere.

Sue Frause can be reached by e-mail at skfrause@whidbey.com.