There are so many aspects of life that we get to repeat seasonally – jumping in the lake in the heat of summer; baking pies in the cool of fall; cozying around warm fireplaces in the cold of winter; marveling at new seedlings in the cool, green spring.
I love when blackberry season is upon us, but I know I have to let go of it when mid-September rolls around. The cycle is predictable, and it won’t last no matter how much I wish it would. I move on to picking the last plums of the season, then I start making pear cobblers when the strong, cool winds blow thousands off of nearby trees.
But it’s the changing nuances within cycles that bring about quiet endings that you don’t realize until you think back on what will never again repeat – experiences you can’t get back; wonderful times that have passed that no turn of the seasons will recapture.
When we moved to Orcas Island, our kids were two and six.
Everything was magical. We’d all walk down to Eastsound Beach and play with driftwood sticks until the sun set.
We’d fashion rafts on overcast days and try them out on sunny ones.
We’d sit in wide-open green fields and eat wood-fired pizza, and walk through cozy-warm Christmas markets drinking hot apple cider.
We had routines that were special and wonderful like putting our younger one to sleep for his noonish nap and cozying together to read stacks of books fresh from the library.
We planted together in the garden. We snapped beans and molded bread dough at dinnertime. We carved the middles out of acorn squashes and ate the roasted seeds while simmering the soup.
We hiked trails, carved stone arrowheads on slate beaches, and frequented our local cove like it was our backyard.
We found a dock that floated astray and called it ours for a day; found tiny forest animals that we nursed back to health; kayaked around islands as our younger boy’s tiny fingers trailed through the salty water that he happily licked off of his fingers.
The land, lakes, ponds, and sea made a magical backdrop for the fairytale childhood that we protectively and creatively oversaw – the four of us living as a unit, moving from one beautiful moment to the next. No time or experience was taken for granted. We truly lived every drop of life.
Little Eastsound felt like it was all ours, and we soaked up every farmer’s market, parade, festival, and holiday gathering.
Days were endless, every minute used for teaching, guiding, coaching, and exploring.
Nights were greeted with gratitude for a welcome state of rest.
But years have crept by. Little ones are no longer little. Pants have been outgrown, and revolving bags of clothes bound for Sequel have continued to fill by the front door.
I sit here alone typing. A life filled to the brim with communal activity and learning has slowly boiled down to just me and my keyboard as I sit at the kitchen table and ponder the memories of raising little ones.
I think about all of the lasts that I didn’t know would be lasts in the moment…
When was the last time our firstborn needed to grasp my hands when he was learning to walk? He nursed every two hours on the dot on his clock, not mine – when was the very last one? Had I known it would be the last, I would have cried while he was nursing. When was his last diaper I changed? The last evening that I bathed him before bed? The last push I gave him on his Strider bike? I might have been exhausted in that moment, but had you told me it was the last, I would have stopped in a silent moment of reverence. When was the last time I held him in my arms? Oh, how many times I picked him up – to kiss him, to carry him around, to show him what I was cooking on the stove, to drape him over me on a long walk so he could fall asleep on my shoulder while I finished the mileage for us both. When was the last time I brushed his teeth for him? Helped him with his socks? Tied his shoes? You do the same things over and over each day, and each act slowly goes unneeded without any warning at all.
You know when blackberries are going to burst on the sun-blasted bush and when they’re going to fade into the rainy season. You have a pretty good idea which cobbler will be your last until next year.
But the lasts in childhood pass by silently, unbeknownst to you until you’re sitting all alone in a room, realizing those lasts have added up to a childhood that is soon to be alive only in your fading memory.
A version of this is on the September 26th Sun Days column on The Orcasonian here.
