julierichmond

I’ve gotten used to the quiet without Colin or Kate; my nineteen year old and twenty three year old have both left for the summer, one for school, one for good, maybe.

I don’t automatically shout at the speaker to play the radio when I walk in the door.

I don’t feel like anything or anyone is missing when I’m home unless Sheldon has the dogs out for a walk.

I miss life ten years ago, until I remember conversations about homework, clothes on the stairs, the phone calls from school.

Then, on the ride to work, Facebook memories turn up on my phone, which I’m staring at because it’s too early for conversation. (Social media is just the right amount of human engagement before 8 am. I can quietly judge people and then step away before I’m disgusted I’m judging people.)

I want time to move backwards. I want to yell out to the adults, standing at the bus stop-“enjoy all of this. It will pass, they will drive, and then they will drive away.”

I spot tired parents, dressed for work parents, and parents who look happy to be there, who know what I know now and didn’t know then, even a little.

I don’t remember the last time I walked Katy to the bus. One day, I was holding her hand and squinting my eyes and the next, she was walking with friends.

It is fall, and I’m settling into the season. I like wearing slippers and hearing the leaves crackle under my feet while I walk in the woods, I won’t miss mud or mosquitos.

As long as no one tries to make me drink a pumpkin spice latte, I’ll be fine.

Seasons change. I have changed.

I wish I knew then what I know now, but at least I’ve learned something along the way.