"We Had Kids."

That's what Kit said to Beverly one evening, just the two of them driving along the Ranch road, an empty house awaiting them. We all experience it sometimes, that jolting realization that we did it and it's over...and it all went by so much faster than we could have ever imagined.

It was our world once, an epic experience that challenged and delighted, exhausted and exhilarated, gave shape to our days, worries to our nights, and utterly consumed us. Then, quite suddenly, they were all grown up...and here we are, remembering. We had kids.I'm thinking of it especially now because my daughter has been here visiting from England, and tomorrow she leaves, and I am already bracing myself for the part I hate, the good-bye part. I think I've been doing pretty well with this whole business of her living so faraway, by and large respecting her autonomy, accepting that it's healthy and normal for young adults to leave the nest and have lives of their own. Really, I get it.

But now that she has been with us for three weeks, I can't help but feel emotional about seeing her off tomorrow. And then I'll have to get used to her absence all over again. Maybe it wouldn't be quite so tough if things were better in my own head. It's been a strange year...an ongoing backdrop of misery pertaining to a nephew's brain injury and a sister's grief and panic, none of it "my" problem, but it weighs heavy on my heart and often changes the lens through which I view the world.

At the same time, my elderly mother has been suffering the ravages of some awful skin disease and was dispatched to the hospital today. Not "my" problem either, and nothing I can do about it, but it's depressing stuff, let's face it.

Meanwhile, here in my own insular world, I'm snagged on all sorts of cliché questions, like what am I doing that matters? I'm trying so hard to figure out my role...not just vis-a-vis my daughter, a presence both familiar and strange who has lit here for a while...but in a larger sense. I can see so many things that I no longer am, and so many things it is too late to become, but I haven't a clue what really to do. I feel like I'm supposed to have something very important in place, but all I can manage is to navigate day by day.

And I'm quite aware that my issues and insecurities are comically luxurious, but these are my musings, and I've no epiphanies in sight. It's a funny time of life. I just read an article about Martin Amis, and he said, "You turn 60 and there’s this: ‘This is going to turn out well. This can’t turn out well.’ But life grows in value because of your leave-taking with regard to it. Not very significant things suddenly look very poignant and charming. This particular period of my life is full of daily novelty. That turns out to be worth a great deal.”

Daily novelty. I perceive it that way too. So much of it is charming and absurd and surprising. But also, as Amis says, poignant. It's that leave-taking aspect, and I seem to be fixated on the poignancy lately. We were in San Francisco last week, meant to be a carefree time, but as we walked around that pastel city beneath glorious blue skies, I was struck by what hard lives so many lead, how fragile we all are, how quickly everything goes by. (I know. I sound like Woody Allen but without any laughs.)

Maybe I'd be fine if I could just have some peace from my family of origin and the whip-cracking of old ghosts. And maybe this blog post is just a protracted whine. Sorry if it is. But it's not an easy thing, being human, even in a life of relative ease. Who knew how swiftly the decades would pass? Who knew that being 60-something would feel so sudden and strange? Who knew we would then just be ourselves trapped in ill-fitting bodies, requiring so much adjustment and learning and grace?

Oh, I've been lucky in so many ways. I have a daughter who grew up smart and healthy and is happily on her way. I am loved and safe and well taken care of and free to indulge in all this blabbing and self-analysis. I have a handful of cherished friends. And I live in a place of beauty and wildness that continues to amaze me. Despite the kvetching, I am grateful every day.

Lately, too, there has been the gift of time with younger friends like Ryan and Carey, who are so much fun, they make me feel young too. When my daughter's boyfriend was here, he jokingly said something to them about hanging around with old people, and Carey quipped that there weren't a lot of choices in these parts, and I felt momentarily crushed until I realized that this is another of the beautiful things about living in this odd little community: friendships do form across generations. They are based on shared values and interests, geographical proximity, and some sort of hard-to-define kindredness of spirit. It's true we old folks have a longer view, a different sense of time that youth can never fully grasp, but age does not entirely define us. If someone can see the original person trapped inside the decrepit container, well, the gap in ages ceases to matter.

Oh, it matters some. But here we are. It's been a weekend of old friends, new friends, apricot pie. Daughter reading in the big red armchair, full moon, wind-rattled windows, suitcase downstairs waiting to be packed. Tomorrow will bring the parting part, and that familiar ache that isn't really sadness 'cause it's just the way things are. We'll return to the vacancy that eventually fills with other things. There will always be a void but we avoid peering into it. We touch base, stay busy, seek the meaning and the joy, feel the whoosh of time passing by, and finally believe those rumors of mortality. And now and then it hits us: We had kids.

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