Tracy and I have a theory about all of our kids; they are time machines. With cruel velocity, the energy of their very lives tumbles us forward in time—birth, grade school, friends, celebrations, crises real and perceived, social media, high school, college—until we’re suddenly sitting in an empty house with rooms full of teddy bears; rock and roll posters; generations of game systems; clothes that you can’t throw away but that won’t be worn anymore; and girls’ shoes, once jealously fought over, now ready for discard. I wish away my time while I wait for my children to come and visit. Only my
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