Funny but here's that rainy day
Here's that rainy day they told me about
And I laughed at the thought
That it might turn out this way
Where is that worn out wish that I threw aside
After it brought my love so near
Funny how love becomes a cold rainy day
Funny that rainy day is here
It was our last night in Utah. I had so needed the escape from what was a very emotional week: the 25h anniversary of my wedding and the first 4th of July in which I was no longer invited to participate in the celebration at my in-laws. The boys were with their dad at his family's lake house and so the girls and I made a trip to Utah to stay with Deborah and her family. It was exactly the distraction I needed. In-N-Out, mountains, trail runs, fresh air, In-N-Out, hiking, shopping, all sorts of entertaining moments; not to mention, incredible friends and hospitality, a beautiful home, views to die for, sunny days, cool evenings, did I mention In-N-Out?
On our last night, they took us to a sushi dinner and we sat at a table right next to the jazz pianist, James. I was thrilled. Immediately, I snuck over to see if James could play me Satin Doll, pretty please. It was one of the songs my dad played when I was but a little girl, now a sentimental favorite. I could nearly hear my dad's voice singing along as James embellished a beautiful improvised arrangement. It was not long until the first glass of wine encouraged me to go chat with James again and see if he might play me another tune. I explained to him simply: I was suffering immense heartbreak and I would sincerely appreciate if he could play Here's That Rainy Day. And pretty soon, the old melody came sweetly singing toward our table. It was a beautiful evening. The best friends, conversation, incredible food, music, laughter, love and dare I say, hope? My heart was full. As we were taking a glance at the dessert menu, James called me back over. He said he wanted to sing me something and I needed to stay close to hear:
"Teach me how to love you," he crooned, as his fingers moved about the keys in the bluesiest of blues. He finished with a smile and, as I hugged him farewell, he said, "Don't you worry darlin', the best is yet to come, the best is yet to come baby."
They say the years you spend with your children growing up in your home are the best years of your life. You don't realize it of course until much later because you are too overwhelmed and exhausted and don't have time to pause for half a millisecond and then you blink and they are grown and gone and what's left? A bunch of achy joints, injuries of unknown origins, and blurry memories...."I laughed at the thought that it might turn out this way"....
And hopefully, the next stage also comes with a sense of contentment and satisfaction with a job mostly well done as we watch our now fully functional adult children launch into the world on their own.....sigh.
I would not give those earlier years back for anything, not one darn thing. I loved being with my kids, doing all the things. But, I will admit, I hope James is right. I hope the best is yet to come. I don't see how yet but if he is right, this next chapter is going to be downright amazing. And even if it can't quite top the fun, chaotic bustling and overwhelming yet deeply purposeful and joyful years of having all my offspring near and prancing about, it's always a good day to be happy; a great day to have a great day; and perhaps enough of that personal mantra will lead me to at least the second to best "best years" of my life: forged with intention, overflowing with authenticity, leaning into laughter, and surrounded by love, light and a wee bit of harmony. Switch-e-rooney....
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| (And so is In-N-Out) |
