The silence smacked me down this morning. The quiet of an empty house, my babies gone — it's his weekend, you see. I stood at the kitchen sink and looked out the window, a mug of coffee like a hug. The memories come unbidden as we prepare to leave this place. I remember being a new mom and being scared of you both, so soft and precious and small. Before you were big enough to bathe in the pink tub upstairs, I'd bathe you here in this sink, then dry you atop a mountain of blankets on the countertop.
Of course that was like, three thousand baths ago.
I look out at the faded blooms of my garden and remember watching your father mow the lawn. Hot and sweaty and resolute because he hated chores like this, hated working in the yard, hated the ties that bind.
When we moved into this house, I was as big as one—seven months pregnant and ready to pop. The walls were peach and I thought it would kill me to be surrounded by the color of putrid fruit, so your father painted them white. Clean walls, a fresh beginning.
I don't know how well you can ever really know someone and perhaps this is the lesson here. You must grow up and know yourselves best so that you have a compass. Count on each other.
I remember when the rhythm of our days included a 25-minute walk after lunch. The two of you would light up when I'd get the stroller ready. So many memories and although it is bittersweet to leave this place, this place we've called home for eight years, a place I've called home for 24 years — I am okay. More importantly, my dear sons, we are okay. Adventure awaits.