The stories untold
My eldest son moved out of the family home last week. I am pleased for him. He is moving on to the next chapter of his life; and he is doing so in the company of his girlfriend. They are clearly smitten with each other.
But, aside from the usual pangs of Empty Nest Syndrome as another of my offspring fledges, there is an additional twinge of sadness.
His departure is a thing I would have recounted to my mother. The fact that he has left half his clothing in his wake or the fact that he was back in the family home less than 36 hours later is something we would have laughed about.
But both my mother and my father passed away in 2022. So this, like all news, gossip and general chit-chat since, will now go unspoken.
My nephew recently passed his school exams. My sister had no choice but to share her news with me; because she too would have called our mum to recount the details.
My wife and I are in the process of buying a property, partly funded by the inheritance left to me by my parents. I cannot express my gratitude, take them for a viewing, nor show them how prudently I have invested the money they bequeathed to me.
I had just started to come to terms with the physical loss of both parents in quick succession. But I now realise that the remainder of my time on Earth will be filled with tales untold; of stories unshared.
My parents met their first two grandchildren. But the pandemic coupled with their failing health meant they never met the third. They will never meet any that follow in the years ahead.
They will not see what becomes of me, my sister, and our respective offspring.
They will miss so much. Though probably not as much as I miss them.
