The shoes were back. There was a time I couldn’t get through my front door without navigating the giant pile of runners strewn at my suburban front door by our kids and their friends. Our kids and their shoes came for the weekend.
The turkey was in the oven, the dogs were asleep, the baby napping and the table was set. One of them had gone for a run, one was reading and the other two were watching the game. Although it was only two, E and I sat down with a glass of wine to enjoy the moment.
Later, in the evening, stuffed with turkey (pun intended), beers in hand and baby again, safely asleep, we sat down to the board game of the weekend (Pandemic). We combined our skills to save the world from certain annihilation and feasted on pumpkin pie. Satiated and content we then sat in front of the fire at peace, seven of us. There are two more than there used to be not so very long ago, yet I can’t imagine our family now without them.
On Monday, we followed the strict rule that no food was to be left behind. I filled their bags with packages of turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, pie and cookies. We said our goodbyes and E took the five of them back to the ferry.
I used to work with a woman whose two sons were maybe ten years older than mine. She told me that I shouldn’t mind the pile of shoes at the door because one day we would miss them.
She was right