My youngest son, the talented and brilliant Mads, moved into his own place yesterday. So now, our house is empty. But not completely empty. I got up this morning before the sun and walked the hallway of my boys bedrooms. I can hear them laughing as they run past me, rubber band guns in hand, firing at imaginary enemies, dying grand, heroic, imaginary deaths. I see them reading, curled up on the bed or sofa, traveling in far off lands with Siddhartha, and I touch the holes in the walls and chips in the molding where young, strong legs slid and kicked. And the food stains on the rugs and the paint ball splatters hiding deep in closets (despite Pias Homeric attention to cleanliness), and that cracked window from the errant projectile just now discovered. Then theres the scent of teenage boys... Its all there yet they are not. Just echoes in my mind. Happy, joyful, loving memories. “Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move on. They move away. The moments that used to define them are covered by moments of their own accomplishments. It is not until much later, that children understand; their stories and all their accomplishments, sit atop the stories of their mothers and fathers, stones upon stones, beneath the water of their lives.” ― Paulo Coelho
Posted on: Sun, 30 Mar 2014 17:23:44 +0000
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