I am an experienced survivor of Empty Nest Syndrome, but I can't say it gets all that much easier each year.

Yesterday our last chick flew away. He did what all our kids have done -- scooped out the essentials from his bedroom, leaving the detritus of childhood clinging to walls and hiding in the closet.

Like his older brother and sister, he is gone but not gone. His room is silent, dust bunnies skitter aimlessly without the flutter of feet to guide them. But piles of random clothes and childhood toys and books are still stacked within view of the doorway. It seems as though he is just out for the evening.

When Eldest Son left for the first time, my husband and I were so bereft we cried. Then in a flurry of recovery I cleaned the empty room.

I don't necessarily recommend this. Some departing students may find it an invasion of privacy, some parents find comfort in the debris left behind. But this particular room was layered thick with years' worth of Gold Bond body powder, aftershave and after high school souvenirs.

I found towels I had not seen in a decade, shoes from fourth grade, seventh-grade writing assignments and a nostalgic, dusty trail into his growing-up years.

Princess departed two years later, laden with a small caravan's worth of freshman girl essentials, and still you could not tell she had left her room. The dresser still was hidden under hair fasteners and cologne, her desk bristled with photos of friends even though she had taken an armload of photos with her. The walls were still covered with neglected posters.

I didn't dare touch her room, except to once again rescue the towels. This time, I closed the door. For some parents this is the most reasonable option. With the door closed, you can imagine they are simply on the other side, doing whatever teens do with the door shut.

Then last year Youngest Son left for the first time. You would think we would be experts at departures, but this time there was no one left but the new cat, whose formidable job was to be son and daughter and baby but who was mostly adept at being wild.

In the huge void the last kid left behind, we rattled around in the stillness. The house was so quiet we could hear ourselves talk. Then we started to plan dinners without factoring in the algorithms of who would eat what. We could wander the house in various stages of undress or go away for a weekend without stocking the freezer with pizzas and worrying about leaving someone alone. I could sing without being mocked.

In place of their loud, messy selves, we have cell phones and e-mail and Facebook. It's just that their bedrooms are so quiet. The rooms are starting to fill up with our out-of-season clothes and things that have no other place.

But just when you think you have found a new use for their old rooms, they come home again. College terms and semesters are remarkably short.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking about getting a dog. It could have its own room.