It makes sense in a way, to need, to go back to what is comforting and known. And as I think back, my mind wonders through the memories of laughter and peace. Quiet afternoons, outside reading or relaxing. Taking pictures there, it was the first place I learned that I had an eye for photography. Taking pictures of all the flowers and grass and bugs, and sunspots on the leaves. It was a place of comfort. It was home. My parents home on the water.
And going home to my parents was always where I went to stay grounded, to be at peace, to sort out the heartbreaks and scraped knees, bruised dreams and noise days. I remember taking walks and finding quiet places to think. It was my safe place.
But now it has changed. Not because of any event or person, but just because of life. Instead of a place where I am being taken care of, it is place where I care for them. The roles have reversed, as I guess is the natural course of life. When I go there now, I am the one who is doing the comforting, making sure Mom and Dad have what they need. I mow the lawn, dust, clean, work, so whatever they need. I tell them that it is all going to be OK, they will be fine and all will work out.
And it is my honor to be there for them. After all they have been there for me for so many years.
But I do miss those days from time to time. When I could go down and rest and reflect. Even when things are going to great in my life, I miss the convalescence that I had known when visiting. In short, I miss being taken care of by my parents, just for a short time, a break in all the daily life of living and working and existing in the city and the rat race.
And so time marches on, and the sweet memories leave a melancholy smile on my face, I am glad to return the favor, but miss the days of being the youngest. The sweet wonderful scent of my father, and the smell of dinner cooking while my Mom worked in the kitchen. The warm tones of the sun pouring in through the windows as we would sit and drink wine, discussing the important issues of the day. Or the times I was broken and and weary, I would sit on Mom’s couch and she would hold me as I cried. Oh, those wonderful wonderful memories. Those memories will carry me, and my heart.
I guess no matter how old you get, you never outgrow the love of your parents.