Weren't they battling with wooden swords just yesterday? All three of them—in the front yard. I know because I sneaked behind the curtains to grab a picture through the window. I wanted to capture that moment: one boy, mostly a man now; another boy, also rushing toward young adulthood; and a girl with long pony legs who will be a young woman before I can blink the memories from my eyes.
Now I am left with wooden swords in the sunshine, a yard dappled in light, dogs napping on the couch, a half-pot of coffee on the counter—too much quiet.
"Purpose" is a tricky thing. It sets up seemingly permanent residence in your life during one season, but flees like a shadow in a single hour. I'm always in a lurch the day after Labor Day. Because I miss them.
I love their busyness and noise and clatter—their foraging for food at all hours of the day—their creativity and crankiness ... their THEREness.
Now I've got to get used to ME again. My own company. My own voice. And I need to find my sense of purpose, all over again.
Time to get writing, I suppose. And rediscover what makes me tick.
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