I decide to go to the library. Just as well. Even though I took Isaac on Saturday.
The parking lot is full. Needing to park further away than I normally do. I don't mind. I like to walk.
Storytime. That's what it is. That time of day.
I put my bag on my shoulder and head to the building. Walking alongside moms and their preschoolers.
That used to be me.
Me holding a hand. Pushing a stroller.
I wait in the breezeway, patiently and with a smile, looking on at this young mother praising, instructing her little ones as they put their stuff in the bookdrop.
As I scan these shelves, little voices are heard singing rhymes. Familiar songs we used to sing.
And my heart aches. A real, tangible ache I can feel heavy in my chest.
I acknowledge this ache. Mindfully observe it like a parent would a child. With love, with tenderness.
I'm older. I've reached a different stage in my life. I lived those years. Lived them fully, joyfully, completely.
I'm at peace with that, I realize.
More and more finding ease, even enjoyment with who I am right now. With this quiet. With this solitude. All this time I now have for myself.
I sit down with a book of poetry. Love poems. I read and I read. I give some attention to anatomy class demands. I gaze out the window. I study the stained glass patterns.
The hours pass.
I look at my watch and realize it's time to go home.