While wandering around Collioure (absurdly pretty and touristy French coastal town) yesterday, I stopped at a certain point and looked across the bay at the buildings opposite. Something about the view prodded me emotionally; then I recalled it was exactly the spot where I'd taken a photo of our son about five years ago and then written a blog about the future - what he might be doing in say, five years time, where might he be? art college? music school? And there I was standing on the exact same bit of concrete, lad, not in picture, but at art college in Bordeaux. Funny thing, life, as Mark and I (husband) say to each other fairly often.
View without lad
I felt quite wobbly all the rest of the afternoon and resisted the temptation to call up said son - not true - I did once - and reminisce soppily, and at length, over that particular stage of his and our lives, and what he might be doing in another five years time, etc.
Maybe it was the anonymous crowds surrounding me, or just some residual bit of menopausal hormone stuff but I felt more emotional about the empty nest thing than I had done for months.
Back home now it seems a little foolish, but maybe us parents are allowed to feel sad from time to time . . . maybe it's even good for humans to experience a bit of melancholia, to allow in the memories and dwell on them a little.
It's all good. He visits often, is happy to be here and then he's happy over there in his art and guitar-filled shoe-box - just as it should be.