The last time we were all together was last summer at the Cape in a rental house for a few more days than two. I always say I’ll take something over nothing; and yet I always wish for more.

As any mother I love my children very deeply. Since they have left home in the early to mid-90s, I’ve learned to accept my sadness at their daily absence from my life. And along with that sadness, comes the overwhelming pride at the adults they have become. I think of them often during a day, seeing and hearing something I know they would like to hear, a moment with their father, or a new food I’ve cooked and I think they’d like to try. But the missing is different. When they reappear in person, I must feel deeper. My excitement is palpable, and when they leave my sadness exhausting.

I sometimes wonder if my parents were this sad when I grew up. I don’t know. In their way, they loved me, but when I was kicked out and left at 18, it was really quite permanent. When I moved closer to them at different points, I visited as often as I could and enjoyed their company (and still do – my mother is 82 and on the opposite coast). But they did not ever parent me again. I have enjoyed the deep pleasure of continuing to be my children’s parent. Of course it isn’t the same as parenting that two year or eleven year old; yet they have left space for me in their lives. This, I think, is the joy and the sorrow.

Late tomorrow for two short days I get to be in the presence of some amazing people. I think I will be 25 again: I get to cook, clean up after them, play games, laugh and fill my heart with their presence. On Monday afternoon, I’ll be 54 again soon enough.