We are sitting in the dimmed lights, feet on warm pine floor, in a circle,

watching the flickering screen of home spun film from long ago,

(or not so long,

depending on how long you’ve lived,)

watching children like ours,

and parents like us,

playing with these cards,

this tree house,

running around this garden,

up these stairs,

laughing as we do,

free as we are,

together.

 

And I ask,

how old are they now?

Grown up, with children of their own,

parents are grandparents,

the children have left home,

don’t come here any more.

 

And my throat catches

as I see my own aging,

eyes pricking as I see that my now bigger children

first came here when they were that small.

 

My breath sinks deeply into long time,

this,

our being here,

together,

feels timeless, limitless

and yet so, I see, will pass.

 

We are but a season,

budding, blooming, shedding, dying

as the steady foundations

of stone

and root

and love

continue on.