“Above all... there is this, the memories of what it means to be a family. The remembering. And the gratitude.”

So, just like that, the planes take off and the cars drive away. I stand at the front door waving goodbye as my children and grandchildren (and their dogs) return to their work, their lives, all far away from here. The grand, messy, hectic Christmas of 2018 comes to an end. The extravagance of love, laughter, tears, confusion, frustration and joy gives way to a deep quiet, the absence of it all wrapped around me like a blanket, holding the memories of it close, savoring the vestiges of the week of celebration.

Of course, I’ll clean and straighten and put the house in proper, adult-only living shape. But for now, I’ll wander around, noting the ways in which a full house of active children of all ages marks the days when noise echoed in the halls, and “stuff” filled every space.

Legos left behind are added to a space where once only sculptures stood, Minecraft and Incredibles, put together by a talented uncle for his nephews just a little too young to do the job by themselves. A double memory of the tens of thousands of those little pieces that have passed under my watch over decades.

The watercolors of tiny artists which must be saved and put up on my wall, at least that was what I was instructed to do by a precocious 4-year-old. And I, of course, will make that happen.

The Cheerios, empty wine bottles, day old pizza, eggnog, M&M’s (just a few), apple juice, and countless empty Wheat Thin boxes (from grandchildren who insist on cheese and crackers promptly at 5PM each day!) all disposed of as we return to New Year’s resolution eating patterns. But, the reminder of the meals cooked by our children linger, all good, better than good, great in fact.

The empty spot in the breakfast nook where our hydrologist son played complex geographical games so over my head that my only question to him on passing was whether he was winning or losing (winning, of course).

The two spots usually occupied by our daughter and son-in-law, hatching plans to get us out and about and stretch ourselves a little, like snowmobiling at -12 degrees, or going to a new Trivia spot, or inaugurating the hot tub and the fire pit, now empty, but reminding us to try something new from time to time.

The everywhere, all at once, visions of our oldest, chasing his children up and down, and in and out, and around and around, making meals, washing clothes, playing games, reading stories, all of it a whirl of love and madness.

The bedrooms, an upheaval of comforters and pillows and blankets and towels thrown in abandon, and toothpaste spattered mirrors, and shower doors lined with soap residue, and a little sock and a tiny stuffed animal (uh oh), who would have imagined this sight would warm my heart so. All this in rooms occupied with and without children!

The dog hair, yes what would a holiday week with all of the family be without the ubiquitous layer of hair of the dogs. It. Is. Everywhere. And it is a reminder of how big a part of our lives is the gift of the unconditional love of our pets. One lonely labradoodle follows me from room to room.

In my studio, the watercolors left to dry, the old typewriter still holding the reminder of the little fingers that thought it was one of the best toys ever. Most of the words on the paper unintelligible, but, there, in the middle, “OAAAAAILOVE OUDAD JJJJJJJJJKKKKKK”. This the work of a seven-year-old whose love of reading and writing is a gift that he will use his whole life, and that my husband and I watch unfold in wonder. We have more time to wonder as grandparents. How our own children learned to love to read and write and play music and calculate complex equations somewhat of a lingering mystery to us.

And speaking of my husband, the foundation, the underpinning, the glue, the “vacuumer”, the first up in the morning, the “Best Day of the Year” man (no matter the circumstances of the day), the rallying cry for getting up and atem’, the ski buddy, the dishwasher, the driver, the cheerleader for all of us, it simply wouldn’t happen without him.

And so, I sit in reflection, as the travelers continue their way home, sending prayers to St Christopher (decommissioned as a saint for some insane reason, but let’s not go down that rabbit hole now) for safe travels. And here’s the thing. Above all the presents and the food and the drink and the skiing and the games and the playing and the tree and the lights, there is this, the memories of what it means to be a family. The remembering. And the gratitude.