The Visit

In anticipation of the visit we bought a dining room table.
We hurried to put away bins and wash away dust.
We removed all clutter from the guest room and did our best to get rid of the cat pee smell on the chair.

I looked at the calendar for 4 months waiting for them to arrive.
All of sudden it was the second last night of the visit.
I wanted to take off my watch, break the clock and slow everything down.

Milo could feel it and decided to abandon his schedule of naps and eating and bedtime.
But we tried to make the day long as full as possible, and packed it with outings, activities, memories and photos.

It seemed like part Christmas holiday, part wedding, part family reunion. All of the occasions that are a big deal and rush right past. The good dishes, the Heath casserole with a lid I haven’t broken yet.  The fancy red bowl that makes a simple salad seem regal.  All the kinds of wine glasses, salted cashews and always finish with a cheese course.

These moments that are over as soon as they begin cause a lump in my throat, an ache in my heart.  They are like the moments when I laid next to Violet for her last two nights alive.  I wanted to sleep next to her knowing it would be my last chance to sleep so well.  But wanted to be awake and not miss one sound.  They are like the nights next to Erin listening to her talk, then breath, then silence.

Seeing the six faces of family and friends at my new table eating fish from the Mission, potatoes from the Ferry Building, salad with flowers because that is what we do here, lemons from the tree.

People who took planes to get here and I almost can’t enjoy it it.
Because it happens so fast.

I want every word I say to be "I love you, don’t go."

Come back every year.  The feels so good to laugh and eat and drink so much wine our blue bin is full after only a lunch.
I want to smash the clocks and never serve the cheese or the little french tarts.

Just to keep it lasting longer.

And then the napkin is lifted from a lap, placed on the table; the bleary eyes begin to wander and think of sleep. And we all draw out saying good night for a chance to tell one more story by the door.

Because I am not the only one who is intent on savoring each bit, never wanting to empty the last bottle of love.