The Shifting Seasons

"Sun in an Empty Room"  by Edward HopperHeading

Autumn

It's a melancholy day. The fall solstice is upon us and there is finally a freshness to the air. I rake leaves that have dropped due to the heat of the summer rather than the chill of fall, but the effect is the same. Things are changing.

I sit on my son's floor and sort through the detritus of his middle school years. Pages and pages of what we used to call “dittos” and notebooks full of illegible chicken scratch. Very little of it has long term value and is relegated to the recycling bin. He is now in high school and these things are not needed. His room no longer suits him and I'm clearing it out.

While my nest is not yet empty, it is shrinking. Our daughters have moved on. The oldest married a year ago and has a home and husband of her own. The younger moved with the spring into the blistering desert seeking her own season of change. Her room stands empty waiting a fresh coat of paint but I haven't yet been able to bring myself to cover over her own shade of sunny yellow optimism.

Our son is moving, at my suggestion, into the oldest sister's room, taking the things he wants across the hall, and leaving rest behind. Lacking the sentimentality of old age, there's very little that he desires and it's up to me to sort and save his childhood.

I move on to the bookshelves. Familiar titles by Dr. Seuss mixed with Goodnight Moon, Where the Wild Things Are, and the entire Harry Potter series failed to make the move across the hall. These among many others will be packed in cardboard and moved to the basement to await grandchildren that may not be too far behind.

A short novel caught my eye and I sit in the recently vacated yellow bedroom, in the rocker that I nursed my children in and skim through the book before it gets donated. It's a beautifully written Caldecott winner about a young girl surviving the dustbowl with her widowed father. My crumpled leaves and powdery dirt are of insignificant concern compared to the strife caught in the pages of this book.

My son comes to find me and despite his advanced age, he's still slight enough to curl up awkwardly on my lap, all elbows and knees. I rock him, lost in reflection and melancholia, but he blocks the motion and we sit still. He initiates the rocking again but proceeds to remove my arm that is wrapped around his shoulder, still wanting contact – but only on his terms. Thus we perform the ritual, the push and pull of the seasons, the dance of parent and child.