The last three roses froze on the bush today, little sprinkles of powdered sugar snow caught on their still-perfect, stiff form.
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.
But right now I want to burrow in and hide a while from the wind of change.
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.
Tagged: adult children, children, empty nest, fleeting moments, growing up, motherhood, roses, season change, teens, winds of change
Bitter sweet for sure. I Long for the company of my children, but I like my freedom to live my life now.
Much love and understanding Tom
Bless you, Tom. You always say the right thing!
Paula, when I read this post I teared up a bit. Then I opening my Bible and read Hannah’s story in 1 Samuel and cried more. It made me think about your post and the mixture of joy and sadness of watching our children grow. Hannah really figured out how to trust God for Samuel. It must have been so difficult, especially knowing Eli’s kids were such hooligans. But she trusted!
It must be wonderful to see the fruit of all your work, mingled with the Spirit’s work come to bloom in your children. What a beautiful life you have and what a beautiful post.
I’ve thought about Hannah a lot, Trisha. I can’t even imagine leaving a child at such a young age. I, too, have thought about the depth of trust she had to learn. You are right–one of life’s best blessings has been seeing the people my children are and are becoming. God is faithful. I look back on the hard times and see the good He forged in them. No life is perfect, but all life has beauty and I agree, I have much to celebrate. Thank you for your kind words.
I can sure relate to what you express so well in this post. Sometimes I miss my little kids so much and never get to see the grown ones enough. Sigh. Hugs to you.
It never ends, does it?
The years go by so fast don’t they? Where do they go and how quickly they grow.
For sure! Remember being young and feeling each day was a marathon? And now I so often wonder where the day went, where the season went. I’m learning to embrace it more.
Poignant. love from your Elsa.
Always a deep blessing to hear from you, my friend!