Here, and not here

The kids are gone: College. Travel. Not here.

There is no laughter coming from the next room; no half dozen bodies sprawled about playing Settlers of Catan or watching vintage Disney. No strains of guitar between snippets of conversation, no one picking out the notes to Bach’s Minuet in G on the piano. There are no invitations to join in a game of Cranium, no curious conversations about the politics of eating locally, or the merits of graffiti.

No one is coming and going unpredictably, and at all hours; laundry is neatly contained in the hamper, instead of avalanching out; there is a sustained supply of milk and juice in the frig, instead of a perpetual shortage.

The children are pretty independent, even when they are here, but each of these details triggers some piece of my mama-brain when they are at home: guilt over allowing the laundry to get out of control; moralizing with the ghost of my mother over curfews; and a gut desire to be sure the kitchen is always fully stocked A) to guarantee the kids will hang out for at least as long as it takes to have a snack, and B) (and mostly B) for the satisfaction of knowing that I am the person who has taken care of these children for 18 and 21 years, from the homemade baby food right through ingredients for cookies-we-must-make-together-at-11-o’clock-at-night and “righteous,” non-GMO milk from grass-fed cows.

I miss the kids.

But I am growing accustomed to the quiet – what my own mother called “the crashing silence” that descended when I returned to college after a visit home. I actually enjoy creating my own rhythm. If I’m on a roll with work, I just keep going until I’m all rolled out, satisfied I’ve finished whatever project is on hand, uninterrupted by a compulsion to make dinner or a request to go to the store or look at a recent essay or, “smell my hair, do I need to wash it?” I go to dance class and linger to chat with friends instead of rushing home. I meet friends for drinks, which morph into dinner. Stay out late with Joseph. Luxuriate in long walks that take me into evening, and no longer worry that I’m setting a bad example by being in the park after dark.

The kids are not here.

And then they are.

An email comes to say Tyler has lost his phone. And then found it. Clara asks for the recipe for latkes. She sends a link to a global awareness campaign for gay rights in Russia. Should I sign it? Tyler calls: what ingredients does he need for pizza? He calls again: should he try to fix his computer himself, or let the shop do it? The mail comes with a postcard from Clara, in Paris. Or from Tyler, in North Carolina.

All the pieces fall back into place – or something vaguely reminiscent of “place.” I answer the questions. I put the cards up on the frig—which is still full of milk and juice.

Briefly, the kids are here. And not here.