I Don't Live There Anymore

The backyard is flooded with sunlight and the rambunctious squeals of two small boys as they take turns on a slip-and-slide I’ve installed in the grass. Their wet bodies glide erratically down to pooled water at the end, making their exhilaration complete—until next time. As I sit on the patio cheering them on, my world in that moment is complete. But I don’t live there anymore.

Movie Night finds them on my bed after dinner with bowls of popcorn to watch a movie of their choosing. They’ve learned to negotiate, knowing I won’t step in to settle disagreements. During the day, if there’s a squabble, they each sit on oversized frisbees and talk. Calling me over to hear their resolution, they’re guaranteed freedom with the outcome. But I don’t live there anymore.

These same two boys, a bit older, have turned my home upside-down with hot wheels tracks, books, stuffed animals, and nerf gun bullets. It’s Destruction Day where anything goes so long as nothing is damaged or ruined. Tomorrow, Reconstruction Day, they will put everything back where it belongs. It’s an agreement we’ve made together. But I don’t live there anymore.

We play games together. A favorite is birdcall identification. Over time I’ve collected more than a dozen Audobon Plush Birds featuring authentic bird sounds provided by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. When the boys correctly identify a birdcall, I pull that bird out of a bag to their hoots of glee—the one with the most birds wins. It’s delightful. But I don’t live there anymore.

Older still, these two grandsons (I have five) have graduated to more sophisticated electronics than just their simple iPads. There are still hot wheels tracks and nerf gun bullets everywhere, but my home has grown quieter. The taller of the two often takes up residence in my office to play video games on his iPhone with friends. They are growing up before my eyes. But I don’t live there anymore.

In high school now, the boys come over to play a favorite card game, Phase 10. In between hands there’s laughter and a good deal of banter. Still practicing the art of negotiation, I am amused and pleased listening to them work through the matter at hand. So handsome and articulate, they grace my home with their presence. But I don’t live there anymore—literally.

Though not able to take up residence immediately, I moved from the duplex in which I’d lived for more than a dozen years into, of all places, my grandsons vacated house. (They moved with their family to a house across town built by their great-grandfather.) Starting over in a smaller house, I’ve achieved downsizing though still favored with an abundance of belongings—and my family. And so, my new life begins.