soundtracks

I'm sitting here, curled up on the corner of my couch with Netflix on silent (really it's just taking forever because the internet cannot handle the tab requirements of teenagers). It's a rare moment of being in my room with nothing to hold my attention, so I drift into my own thoughts, and then I hear it. The soundtrack of the last three years.

There are muffled voices and shrieking hysterics and the running of feet down a hallway of upperclassmen girls, my babies. They close doors and drop down bags and turn on music. They laugh and tell stories with loud voices and I'm imagining big hand gestures, to further the drama no doubt. They move on, from one room to the next in an ongoing of homework procrastination. Music gets turned up a little higher, showers turn on, make up comes off. I imagine book bags sitting on the ends of beds and windows opening to let in the night breeze with no mind to the incoming mosquitos. They too want to hear the hustle of the outside as others rush to sign in, mindlessly laughing and skipping, already late, already not caring.

They take up so much life, my teenagers. They feel everything all the time and they exhaust me. But, man, are they wonderful. Their future scares and exhilarates them. They are embracing it arms wide open, jumping off the edge with full faith that the parachute will appear.

But right now, they are savoring all of the finales. The final tech week, the last project. The last time their boyfriend will wait for them in that secret spot that we all know about. The last whispers before they part from each other.

So they scurry and they run. They begin to lessen their focus on how much they may (or may not) need me and focus on their longing for each other. For simple, for predictable, for routine.

I sit and let it all circle around me. The beautiful wonder of it all. I sit here and know that downstairs sits a woman not too different from me who is trying to decide if this is a job for her. And I silently hope that she is in awe of us-- the people who know the names and the backstories, who call them "honey" and "love" because we can and they let us -- I hope that she is dizzy keeping up with it all. More, however, I fear that she will easily replace us, those of us leaving, and our memory will dwindle.

I sit and let the soundtrack swirl. And then Netflix loads. And my night off calls and I let go. I let go of the strings and the noise quiets.

For now, they are the soundtrack of my life. And soon, we will part. But not now. Now we dance together, blind to any interloper.

19 days left. Nineteen.

Don't blink.