In My Father's House

I took pictures of Arlington, my home town, on my brand new phone, but I can’t get them in a large enough file to post on my blog. I’m sure it can be done, and I’m sure my children know how to do it. It’s times like these when I desperately miss my children’s techno-know-how.

I’m glad their living their own lives. I’m thrilled that my they’re pursing educations, careers and building families of their own, but my life is smaller without them. I miss all the love and laughter they brought into our home.

This is my dad in his garden. See how small my picture is?

And visiting my dad’s home drives home that bittersweet pain. He’s 92, still here, and yet stepping into his house is like stepping into another era. While I was there, we canned jelly and beets from produce grown in his garden. He also replaced his wood burning stove with a pellet stove, which my sister knick-named the dragon. How many years has my dad chopped and hauled wood to heat our house? Fifty-plus? The pellet stove burns a handful of graphite and doesn’t require the physical strain of wielding an ax. To him this is the height of luxury.

What will luxury mean to me in 40+ years? What will I consider a luxury and my children consider a necessity? Is there an era where I’ll remain—even if the rest of the world moves on without me?