|painting by Barbara Rosenzweig|
It rained all day Saturday. Long hard cleansing rain that melted nearly all the snow still piled in large chunks on the sides of strip shopping malls and driveways and places that don't get much sun.
Whenever I visit my parents, I am reminded of the passage of time, of the way generations weave together. I always consider the treasure of time too and it is hard not to become self-reflective since my drive to my parents' home takes me through the village where I spent my entire childhood.
My parents are in their eighties now and it is such blessing that our teenaged sons have grown up knowing them. When I visit, I am reminded of all my other visits, all the way back to the times I was pregnant or with breast-feeding babies in tow.
Tonight I can feel their presence when I see my mother's undone puzzle on a card table, her knitting stored neatly in baskets, an easel with a sheaf of my father's etchings and the bottles of cranberry juice and sparkling water in their clean and nearly empty refrigerator.
My parents welcome my family always and, having raised many children themselves, understand our sons in all their stages and phases. I thought of this before dinner next door with my next-oldest sister and her family. I took a long walk in the rain and breathed in the fresh air and prayed the rosary by counting Hail Marys with my cold fingers and felt grateful about how spring is, once again, on its way.