I holler down to the basement.
My son and a stampede of six additional footsteps race up the basement stairs as I walk back up to my bedroom. My back is to them on my way up and as each of the six pass into the kitchen they yell, separately, Thank You Karrie-Ann!
My heart always melts at these small gestures of appreciation. Each of them have been in my home time and time again – for seemingly forever. Some of them over a decade. I know them all so well.
But tonight with my back to them I realized something new. My breath catches in my throat. I don’t recognize their voices anymore. I really don’t. I know who has come – who is present – some of them were here just last week. But without seeing their faces I realize I don’t recognize these voices.
And it’s because these voices don’t belong to the boys that grew up here.
They belong to men.
And how lucky am I that as such, those voices still keep wanting to come back to be present in our home.
So. Freaking. Lucky.