I brought them in hoping their blossoms will last a little longer.
Tried to freeze frame their beauty.
Hang onto the season of roses just a bit longer.
This time yesterday it was a balmy 73.
I worked hard then, painting, cooking, baking, entertaining. A full day and a full house.
Today the home echos empty, and melancholy sets in. Maybe I’m simply tired. Or perhaps I’m grieving the passing of the season.
Boy becoming man.
He’s the last home. A senior in high school on the verge of flying.
And today he is seventeen.
All 6 foot 1 inches of him.
This day he applied for a job, drove himself to physical therapy. Now he’s working on an English paper for the college class he’s taking.
Nothing little kid in all of that.
Just growing up and beyond.
As it should be.
Earlier we cried a little together. The grief was more poignant on my birthday, too, remembering those gone who usually celebrated with me.
It hit him the same way, and I knelt beside my son at the hint of tears in his grown-up eyes.
He held me as my eyes filled too. And while I meant to comfort, it was he who comforted me, his arms and shoulders lending masculine strength.
When did he ease out of child receiving and into adult giving?
The sky outside has darkened, but the rushing snow brings beauty. I love the season of baking and quiet and snowmen and sledding.
The home inside has emptied, but on special days they rush back in bringing joy.
Yesterday they were here–all but the one too far away to drive home for an afternoon. I baked up a storm. They brought spouse and girlfriend and best friends. We watched the game and a movie.
Said happy birthday to Sam.
Maybe that’s why today this house is very quiet.
I thought I wanted this.
This greater space for me.
And tomorrow I will.
To cling to the little boy twinkle in eyes of the past.
The same that flickers still in teasing gazes of the present.
I want to hug a little tighter.
Hold on a little longer.
Snuggle with him on the sofa.
Refusing the thought that he is seventeen.
And not seven.
A young man.
No longer a boy.
To freeze frame this moment.
To believe the blossoms will not grow old.
The season has not yet fled.