The change is monumental but it is measured in minutiae.
Taking down my fragile blue glasses from the top shelf where the wine glasses are kept.
Leaving the dishes I used to cook dinner on the countertop, including the knives.
Walking away from a pile of laundry on the couch I don’t care about folding.
I left my phone on the table knowing no one will try to put it away.
I walk in my house with bare feet now because there isn’t a walker to roll over them.
There is no one to remind me to clean the house or wash the clothes.
My daughter has moved out, leaving behind a few crafts and outgrown baby dolls.
It’s taken longer for me to become an empty nester than most people. My daughter is 29.
Suddenly my schedule is set to my own rhythm and I eat dinner at nine-o-clock.
I shop for food I want and cook what I like to eat, even just cereal sometimes.
My daughter isn’t here to break my glasses, drop my phone, or run over my toes.
She isn’t here to wake me up at 10:00 PM or midnight or 3:00 AM.
She isn’t asking me to wash her hair, tape her books back together or help her dress.
It’s just me now, an unemployed caregiver in this quiet, too big house.
I gave away most of my leggings and sweats, the clothes I wore to care for my daughter.
Then I unpacked all my pretty dresses that I couldn’t wear before, hanging them in my closet.
I put one on and stretch my arms above my head, letting the cloth stroke my bare legs.
Putting on my one pair of open toe sandals, I decide it’s time to buy more.