Fifteen to two. The number of individuals living in our home on the weekend compared to the number today.
They're gone. All of them.
The sheets have been changed; the towels washed and put away; the extra table and chairs packed up; the bath, which saw more use in one weekend than it regularly sees in a month, has been cleaned; the last of the Lego packed away; books returned to their shelves; items that had been moved or put out of sight, returned to their rightful place; and DH and I have finished up the last of the leftovers.
But here and there I catch a scent; I find a lone sock or a left-behind item; I see a reminder that they were here. And I miss them all over again.
It feels that I've done this too many times in the past year. Always saying goodbye.
And yet - yet - I am proud that they are going off and living their own lives. Proud of who they have become and the beautiful families they are raising. Proud of what DH and I have had the privilege of somehow being involved in. Proud of every single one. Every single one.
I just wish they hadn't gone from this ...
to this ...
in no time at all.
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