Member-only story
The space between the past and the future
I’m living with ghosts today.
Leo started college this week. Ryan is already gone — he only came home for a week this summer and brought his girlfriend. Tate, my baby, starts high school next week.
College, college, high school. Gone, gone, almost gone.
I walk around the kitchen and arrange black bar stools into a neat line under the island. When the boys were younger, I couldn’t imagine living in a house that wasn’t littered with laundry or didn’t have a bottomless sink of unwashed dishes. It was unfathomable that countertops could stay clean, but here I am, drinking tea in a spotless kitchen with only my dog to keep me company.
At 8:30 in the morning, thunderous footsteps should end in dramatic slides across the hardwood floor, but there’s silence. I bring my teacup to my lips and allow the steam to damp my face. It hides my watery eyes from no one except the dog who has claimed the once prime real estate of my lap.
Am I selfish for wanting to pause, rewind, and do everything over? I don’t want my mourning of our old life to overshadow the boys’ excitement of finding their new ones, but this new space I occupy aches more than I expected, and my stubborn heart clings to the past.
