It's October. The air has turned cool, and the faintest smell of campfire lingers as we take our daily walks. I step into the garage to feed the dog each morning, my bare feet chilled on the cold concrete, and suddenly I'm craving oatmeal and pumpkin bread and hot cider. We've had a few gray, rainy, blustery days that meant cozying up with a blanket on the couch...and others with buttery yellow sunshine that bathed everything in honey light and begged me to venture out.
I peeked out my bedroom window this morning, just in time to see a gust of wind blow a swirl of bright orange leaves off of a tree. And it hit me with a flash. I had peeked out of that very same spot on the day we brought Everett home from the hospital.
When we had checked in on a Saturday, the barely-April weather kept the branches bare or sporting tiny buds. The bushes were still a dormant brown, and only a few early flowers had been brave enough to bloom. Five days later, I sat in the back seat of the car holding our boy's tiny hand and reassuring him that all was well, narrating every detail of the experience for the duration of the drive. As we approached our turn, I marveled at the trees on our street.
Spring had arrived! It seemed that our new family member brought new life to our whole world that week. The pace of nature was perfectly timed, his cadence in step with the changing of the seasons and the rebirth of the flora around us. White and pink blossoms filled the trees like armfuls of soft tissue paper. Blades of grass popped up in bright, sweet green. Once home and comfortable in our room, I stood from the bed to look outside again. The beautiful symbolism (or possibly the hormones) brought tears of joy that day.
So, fast forward six months. (six months!) And here we are. The trees are once again changing. And there is so much I need to document of our change.
I'm overwhelmed by the task, but a sense of urgency is present, like I need to accomplish this before the last bright leaf floats to the ground.
I peeked out my bedroom window this morning, just in time to see a gust of wind blow a swirl of bright orange leaves off of a tree. And it hit me with a flash. I had peeked out of that very same spot on the day we brought Everett home from the hospital.
When we had checked in on a Saturday, the barely-April weather kept the branches bare or sporting tiny buds. The bushes were still a dormant brown, and only a few early flowers had been brave enough to bloom. Five days later, I sat in the back seat of the car holding our boy's tiny hand and reassuring him that all was well, narrating every detail of the experience for the duration of the drive. As we approached our turn, I marveled at the trees on our street.
Spring had arrived! It seemed that our new family member brought new life to our whole world that week. The pace of nature was perfectly timed, his cadence in step with the changing of the seasons and the rebirth of the flora around us. White and pink blossoms filled the trees like armfuls of soft tissue paper. Blades of grass popped up in bright, sweet green. Once home and comfortable in our room, I stood from the bed to look outside again. The beautiful symbolism (or possibly the hormones) brought tears of joy that day.
So, fast forward six months. (six months!) And here we are. The trees are once again changing. And there is so much I need to document of our change.
I'm overwhelmed by the task, but a sense of urgency is present, like I need to accomplish this before the last bright leaf floats to the ground.
Coming Home Day
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