I ride shotgun as my husband drives south on a Georgia highway
towards Atlanta. Day has turned to night,
and I stare out the windshield at the steady glow of a star. Stability in the sky.
We’ve spent the day looking at houses, north of the city,
towards trees and mountains and lakes. Towards possible homes for our newly emptied nest. Towards possible places to begin a third act.
It took me a long time to get here. To this beginning. To even
wanting a beginning. I reveled in the glorious middle of my story for so many
years, and I didn’t like it when I reached the end. I wanted it to continue.
We come closer to our suburb and the star disappears. I see
the lights of Target, where we’ve shopped for the past 18 years. I see the red, neon open sign in the window of
Kroger, where we pushed our babies in grocery carts, and bought them candy in
the checkout lines. I see the lights of the dry cleaners where we’ve dropped
off countless bundles of our clothes. I see
artificial lights, but remember real love.
I thought our life
here would last forever. I loved it all: swing sets in the backyard, bikes in the garage, crayons throughout the house. The sound of my children's voices. Everyday. My son was only one, and my daughter was 4,
when we moved into our current home. I never thought I could leave it. I was
too attached.
But those years didn’t last forever. Our kids grew up. They opened my heart and
blew my mind and then they left. And though I am grateful and happy and free at
last, I, like most parents, have struggled with the loss and grief
of letting go. It hasn’t been easy, and I’ve had to make a concentrated effort
to move on. But somehow, despite all of the conflicting
emotions, or more likely, because of them, the ending is turning into a
beginning.
Today I wasn't looking for
backyards suitable for swing sets. I wasn't looking for neighborhoods full of
children. And at times, what I wasn’t looking for scared me, and made me sad.
But then I saw porch swings. And backyard hot tubs. And gentle walking paths down to the water’s edge. I saw possibilities that we never could have considered when our kids were young. And I remembered the many things that we loved before we were parents.
Ageing brings the realization that there is always a
beginning, a middle and an end. And that the only real stability is in the heart, down deep, where we store all the things
we love. But then I saw porch swings. And backyard hot tubs. And gentle walking paths down to the water’s edge. I saw possibilities that we never could have considered when our kids were young. And I remembered the many things that we loved before we were parents.
I can’t wait to find our empty nest house. If you drive by, we’ll be the slightly graying couple on the porch swing, rocking it to and fro, reveling in our beginning.
