The Leaves Are Bursting and So Am I

The Leaves Are Bursting and So Am I

Something shifts in May on PEI. The days stretch longer, the light hangs around like it finally decided to stay, and people, actual humans, seem to complain a little less. I notice it everywhere. Neighbours wave instead of hurrying past. Strangers make actual eye contact. I find myself out and about more, breathing a little deeper, moving a little slower.

I love this time of year. I love watching the leaves burst open, that very specific shade of green that only exists for about a week before it deepens into summer. It feels like the whole island exhales at once.

And yet.

Nobody Prepares You for This

Last Sunday at 6:45am I sat in our car in the parking lot of Porter's high school and watched a bus pull away. Our son Porter is 17, in grade 11, and he was off on a six day band trip to Toronto with his friends. He left with his bags, his trumpet, and a container of his favorite cookies to share with the kids on the bus. He's been on trips before, he's a fairly seasoned traveller. He was fine. He was beyond fine, he was so excited.

I sobbed for over an hour.

My husband Adam kept gently reminding me, "he's just gone for a week of fun with his friends." Yes. I know. And yes, we still have grade 12 ahead of us, and we have no idea yet where Porter's next chapter is going to take him. But something about watching that bus pull away cracked something open in me. The clock just feels different now. The everyday, ordinary, background noise, shoes by the door, breakfast dishes in the sink kind of time is still here, and I am not ready to take a single second of it for granted.

You spend 17 years doing everything right, raising them to be kind, respectful, loving, independent, and then one morning a bus drives away and you realize you did your job a little too well.

When the Clock Starts Feeling Different

And then, on the drive home, already a hot mess, it hit me. This time next year when Porter goes on his next band trip, it will just be Adam and me. Because our daughter Breagh and her partner, who live in the apartment downstairs, will likely be gone too by then. Our nest, which has always had this beautiful, noisy, full kind of weight to it, is about to get very quiet. No kids. Just us.

The pain is hard to describe. It's not sharp exactly. It's more like hitting your thumb with a hammer. Throbbing. Numbing. Except it's not your thumb. It's your whole heart.

Did Our Parents Even Feel This?

I was talking to another mom recently, a fellow entrepreneur in the tourism industry. Her kids are a bit older than our youngest, one of them graduating this year. And she said something that stopped me completely. She said she doesn't want to wish away the time but she just wants this bit to be over.

I didn't say what I was thinking. But I wanted to ask, why? So you can work harder?

And I don't even know if that's fair. I have no idea what she was really feeling.

But it did make me wonder, did our parents even feel any of this? I can't say for certain. Maybe they did and just never showed it. Or maybe, and I say this with so much love, they were just built differently than we are. Because in my head, at least in my case, the moment that door closed behind me there was probably a toast. Maybe even a party. I picture it clearly and honestly, good for them. 😂

So what is this thing we're feeling? Is it our generation? Is it just me? I genuinely don't know. What I do know is that I'm not ready to fast forward through a single bit of it.

We don't get to preserve this season of life in a jar. We can't seal it, label it, and pull it off the shelf when we're ready. This one we just have to live through, fully, messily, sobbing in a parking lot at 6:45am if that's what it takes.

The Moment We Came Home

When we got home I slipped upstairs and noticed his bed was made. He had made it before we left that morning. That quiet little act of thoughtfulness, before a week of adventure with his friends, made me smile with so much pride. And then cry all over again. Because that's just who he is.

That was enough. That was everything.

Happy May, friends. Go hug your people. Even the ones who are almost too big to let you. 

Lots of love,

Marsha