Summer feels less like a family member and more like a visitor once school begins. I sit in the car at the base of Little Cottonwood Canyon in front of the piano teacher’s house and watch the rays of sun find their path through the leaves of trees. Shifting gold patches of light lay scattered on the road before me and the poplar leaves shuffle in the wind, sounding almost like a stream. Hazy light brings definition to the fins of cliffs layered like a fan ahead of me. The quality of light brings thoughts of football season, new pencils, new shoes, and the crunch of leaves beneath my feet.
I have declared lesson time is writing time, the car, a retreat from the house that seems to echo with reminders of all I need to do.
We do, and do, and do. The lists are getting checked off, but the signs of strain showed up for me this week: mouth ulcers, forgetfulness, irritability toward our naughty dog patient.
Paige began her move back to Provo, her last move to BYU. I watched her drive away through tears even though I knew she would be back the next day. It’s as if I owe each child some tears to mark milestones. They breeze out of the house, anxious for the next step, but I see the path, and the steps of childhood and early adulthood are running out. Their days grow bigger than toys and games at home, their circles are wider than family and a few friends on bicycles, and their journeys as different as their interests and gifts.
Sigh. Hooray! ((Sniff.))
What’s on the list for today?
Buy more cereal, the fuel of choice.
Vet
Calls
A visit
Clean. The. Floors.