I love September, I do. But to love September, I first had to bid farewell to August and that is where the difficulty lies. The end of August always comes with a large dose of melancholy. I can hear John Denver, even now, crooning about it being “oh so sad to see the summer end” (from Season Suite released in 1972). Then, I see in my mind the bicycles discarded under the swing set, the wheels still spinning. I see ponies standing at the fence nickering to me as they wonder where their beloved riders and treat providers have gone, though you’d think they would breathe a sigh of relief. Shoes are tidy at the back door, jackets are hung up, and there are no giggles and guffaws coming through open August windows. Freedom has gone and in its place were schedules, bedtime rules and packing lunches, morning alarms and remembering details of what to pack in those school bags, while brushing and braiding four heads of long hair. It went by too fast and this year’s farewell to August provided an even greater ache for whatever reason. My eldest is 45 and my youngest is 32, with two more in between, and all are a long distance from summer play. Oh my, those were glorious days. Luckily, I can still hear the sounds that come from four daughters growing up on a farm.
I am no longer as relevant as I once was. Oh sure, I listen to their worries and comfort their anxiety, but they are quite capable of solving their own problems. They no longer need me to hunt for a wayward shoe or a matching sock. I can’t pull them on to my knee and have my hugs protect them from the real world. Their lives are their own; they belong to themselves. The truth is they were only on loan to me for that short time while I got them from childhood to adulthood as safely as I was able, which in the end is never completely safe for any of us. The grief of letting our children grow up is as great as the grief of our own traversing that space at the end of childhood which we were obligated to let go of and leave behind. I still long for the comfort of my childhood, even with its worries and aches; the joy and freedom were so real, and no place was safer than crawling on to my dad’s knee. I would go back in heartbeat if I was able, just to visit that space when everything was ahead of me and only play was behind me and practising piano.
I read somewhere about our grandchildren being the greatest gift of all. There is truth in that, but in some ways the worry is greater. We see those moments that changed our children, that knocked them off the path even if only briefly. We all make mistakes as parents, none of us were perfect despite our desire to be so. The world seems a scarier place now than when I was raising children but is it really or are we just more aware. There is still kindness all around us, though the other may be louder. There is patience and sharing and laughter and helping. When grandchildren return to school it is even more noticeable how fast the days flee. We are observers and the truth is much clearer that our time with children is so limited. Our time to support and share and teach goes by like a gust of wind and we are left with our hands at our sides, powerless to stop time. The moments together are beyond precious.
August has gone, without my permission, despite my holding firm while begging her to stay, shouting my reasons that were ignored. Time pauses for no one. I am hoping September will comfort me with its beautiful changing colours and its often gentle weather, the days meandering as they shorten, while behind the scenes winter prepares to march forward. Perhaps if I buy new pencils, my melancholy will be shifted to a host of new possibilities.
wendistewart@live.ca
