On Sunday, Annika left our driveway on the way to her brand new adventure in Chicago. Mimicking what the girls did when they were small, I ran alongside her car in the street until she reached the top of our cul-de-sac, smiling, shouting and waving. As she rounded the corner, I could not hold back my tears. Our oldest daughter was now in the driver’s seat, moving away from her childhood home.
When I walked back down the street and up our driveway, Jennifer was waiting for me. Like me, she was in tears, sobbing. We stood in our garage, filled with boxes of all of Annika’s stuff, holding each other in a poignant embrace, each of us acknowledging with our tears that things would no longer be the same.
Jennifer and I are again empty nesters. This time, however, is different. Annika will not be returning after the next semester of school. Indeed, she graduated in 2020 at the beginning of COVID, giving us two bonus years with her. Now, her studio lights and recording equipment have been carted off in boxes. I am sitting in the basement in front of a computer that I have not used for months. I can hear Jennifer’s voice upstairs in the family room, but I can’t make out any words. Our home is so empty without Annika’s boundless energy and quirky ways.
Before she got in the car, Jennifer, Annika and I spent some time together in prayer and reflection. Suddenly, waves of memories came flooding back, as if Annika’s life was flashing before my eyes in a fast moving picture. I found myself recalling, in vivid detail, taking Annika to learn how to swim in the Costick Center pool nearby. She was so small and our time together in the pool was filled with joy and tenderness.
Words cannot describe how grateful I am for it all. One season has ended, and another is beginning. Malin will graduate college at the end of this month. After the summer, she plans to head off to Sweden for her own adventure. Our girls are growing up. They say that life doesn’t stand still, and we know this to be truer than ever before. I understand from others that we will get used to this new arrangement. But for now there are lots of aches, sighs and tears.
I realize that we are not the first parents to embrace a child before they set out on their own. But these are our girls! It seems like just yesterday when they waited for me to arrive at home after work. Let’s play run and jump! This game involved each of our girls clapping a signal, then running down the hallway toward me. Then they would jump up, and I would launch them into the air. They would squeal with delight, landing safely on our king-size bed. Malin would sometimes cut in front of Annika to get a double run and jump. Annika was usually a good sport about this. We would all laugh and smile with the simple joy of being together and having fun.
Now, the hallway upstairs is silent and Annika’s bedroom is empty, except for some things hanging on the walls to remind us of our shared history here. I love our family and this sacred place. I cherish all of the memories gone by, and those memories yet to be made.
“If These Walls Could Speak” by Amy Grant
If these old walls
If these old walls could speak
Of things that they remembered well
Stories and faces dearly held
A couple in love
Living week to week
Rooms full of laughter
If these walls could speak
If these old halls
If hallowed halls could talk
These would have a tale to tell
Of sun going down and dinner bell
And children playing at hide and seek
From floor to rafter
If these halls could speak
They would tell you that I’m sorry
For being cold and blind and weak
They would tell you that it’s only
That I have a stubborn streak
If these walls could speak
If these old fashioned window panes were eyes
I guess they would have seen it all
Each little tear and sigh and footfall
And every dream that we came to seek
Or followed after
If these walls could speak
They would tell you that I owe you
More than I could ever pay
Here’s someone who really loves you
Don’t ever go away
That’s what these walls would say