So rich were the hours. So filled with laughter and comings and goings were our days. So many steps on the stairs, giggles in the night, doors slamming and dishes clattering. So much stillness now. The quiet is deafening. The ticking of the clock has never been louder. Even the dog sits forlorn by the kitchen door waiting and watching for the kids to come back from fishing at the lake.
Maybe in addition to "scratch and sniff", modern technology will soon be able to recreate multi-sensory, 3-D experiences that can play back the golden moments. Could technology ever reproduce the delight of Popsicle-slurping with cousins on a sweltering summer day...the combination stink and serendipity over a hooked bass....rollicking laughter at a challenging checker game or the clinking of marbles on the game board? Could some yet-to-be device recreate virtual glee as frosty, root-beer float mugs are passed? How about conversations in "make-believe-land" and the resulting joy of Great Granpa, who crafted the decades-old dollhouses for other little girls? Could we absorb again the wonder and awe of walking the neighborhood where our kids grew up...hear the cacophony of memories echoing at the same time grandchildren meet the creek, the old treehouse, the cul-de-sac, and the polo ponies for the first time? Could we experience vicariously once again the rousing cheer over a strike at the bowling alley... the aroma of baked goods and culinary creations...a poolside French-toast-with-lemon-curd-and-strawberries-with-blueberries breakfast... and those delicious soft little snores from the back seat at day's end?
A gift to myself, the photos. A gift from God, the precious memories. Here follows a photo melange of the fading family melee of summer 2015.
And then, rest with me in permission to grieve, if you've ever known the bitter-sweetness of separation because of a Love bigger than your own. The link sent below was shared by my daughter as she waited for her children on the opposite coast after I launched them toward her at summer's end. Because she is a mother, she is beginning to understand. And because her chicks are still under foot and in her nest, she hasn't a clue.
May she have daughters
of her own
to care
when she is old
and I am gone.
I should have loved
to care for her once more
as I did then
long years before.
I was a mother young
and she – my child.
Caring was joy. So when
she is old and I am There,
may she have daughters
of her own
to care.
from “Sitting by My Laughing Fire” by Ruth Bell Graham (1977, Word Books)
