Things here are quiet.
A week after saying goodbye to our 4-year-old foster son, life is incredibly quiet. Mind-numbingly quiet.
My heart attempts to fill the silence by running through the scores of loud memories he left behind him. Eleven months’ worth of memories run on a loop in my mind, starting with the sounds of the first evening we met him last April: His boisterous laugh, the way he pounded out music on a piano keyboard, the wheeze from the cold he was battling as he fell asleep next to me on the couch.
The noise of the rain smacking the pavement the next afternoon as we all sprinted to my car to take our new foster son home with us for the first time. The sound of bedroom doors swinging open and slamming shut as he explored.
In the time since, I’ve taken him to the doctor, the dentist, his first swim lesson, his first day of preschool, his first movie theater and his first karate class. He was a part of our family for every vacation and every holiday.
But mostly, our lives were made up of all the in-between days. The nothing days. The typical, mundane, in-the-trenches-of-parenting kind of days. Days of scooters and playgrounds and painting and board games and lots of reminders to stop running in the house. Evenings of cooking dinner and dancing in the dining room and cheering when Daddy arrived home from work and more reminders to Stop. Running. In. The. House.