I’ve had a long month. It started when I moved my daughter into her studio apartment, where she starts her first grown-up job soon. It finished with me driving several hours across the state to drop off my son at college. The return trip home seemed much quieter and much longer.
Kim and I are officially empty-nesters, and our kids are “on their own”.
One of these now adults is a loving, nurturing soul who is attentive to the smallest details of the people in her life. She hops from one interest to the next, soaking up new experiences. She celebrates the quirks that make each person unique.
The other is easy-going. He works hard, but he and life have achieved harmony in a happy kind of dance. He can find and reflect humor in any situation. He is at his best in small crowds, with friends who laugh together and stand up for each other.
I am proud of both of them, and there is no reason for me to worry. They have much to learn but are ready to face what lies ahead. God smiles at them, and they smile back. They’ll be fine.
While their worlds are expanding, mine has suddenly contracted. I have no “little buddy” to ride with me to the grocery. Even if I went alone, who am I cooking breakfast for anyway? I catch myself starting tasks that are no longer necessary.
There is nobody left to teach how to change a flat tire, light a grill without burning your eyebrows, or iron a shirt like a pro. Now I await phone calls asking for advice.
I’ve spent most of my adult life building a home for my family. The smallest details have been carefully organized to prepare the kids to fly out of the nest one day. Now that the day has come, I wonder how it got here so quickly.
I am suddenly left to walk through a house that seems much larger and lonelier than before. Many rooms now sit unused except by the memories that live in them.
In one bedroom, a memory sits behind a tightly closed door and sings softly while strumming a guitar. The music provides relief from the angst of teen years. I like to close my eyes and listen silently from the hallway.
In the next bedroom, another memory is playing one vinyl LP record after another in a world that went digital decades ago. Albums are strewn across the bed while their collector admires each and carefully reorganizes them. I see so much of her mother’s beauty in her.
The family room holds the echoes of a father and son intently watching superhero cartoons that they’ve seen many times before. They occasionally interrupt the show to discuss which superpower they would choose, and who is the greatest hero. Could that little boy imagine the man he would become?
The small table in the kitchen holds the memory of a mother and daughter surrounded by scattered crayons while they carefully color pictures of animals and flowers. I tell them that their pictures are beautiful, but the memories don’t seem to notice.
The dining table hosts a noisy feast. “Everybody talking and nobody listening” is the family motto. Comfort foods fill every empty space but are seldom chewed thoroughly in the wild race for seconds. I think we took a picture that day. I wonder where it is?
Some rooms have silent occupants. I sigh at the piles of dirty dishes that reappear on the kitchen counter overnight. I shake the empty milk carton that found its way back into the refrigerator door. I remember wondering how they would ever get along without me.
More memories are living in the garage and backyard, but I’ve seen enough. There’s no hurry to visit the others now. I have lots of time, and they’ll still be there.
My celebration of a new life with a wife I love will need to wait for a short while. Oh, I’m excited about it. We have plans for grand adventures. But not just yet.
For the moment, I will quietly mourn the passing of my days as a full-time father and wait for the separation pains to subside. I need to let go of my previous identity and discover who I am now.
I know that all of us will be together again. More memories will move in one holiday weekend soon. We love each other, and that hasn’t changed. But the seismic shift is impossible to overlook.
Today, I will sit quietly with the memories who share my home. I need their company and comfort.
Maybe I’ll watch that cartoon with those two guys. It’s one of my favorites.
