Soft-serve, Green Onions, and bending time

I had a beautiful visit with my Mom and Dad last Friday. I drove them to the dentist for their cleanings, and then we celebrated with ice cream cones from Burger King's drive-thru. We listened to my Oldies (50s/60s) Spotify playlist as we drove around Torrington commenting on the glory of the late-summer day.

My Dad expressed such pleasure about the cold and creamy attributes of a vanilla soft-serve that I had to check the rearview just to catch a glimpse of his joy. I danced to Green Onions by Booker T. and the M.G.s while I drove with my Mom sitting next to me. She took turns rolling her eyes at me and then my Dad whenever he voiced just how good his ice cream was. As we came off the highway and rolled down the car windows, the fresh air is our pièce de résistance, and ecstasy hits.

My Mom has Alzheimer's and my Dad has vascular dementia and shuffles gingerly with his walker, so getting out for a drive takes more time, energy, and planning than it used to. But I savor such trips deeply, particularly since they force me to slow down and notice more of the beauty of the universe. That's some of what I mean when I describe a trip to the dentist and the fast food drive-thru as beautiful.

I find further beauty in these moments with my Mom and Dad - who of course once were the drivers on trips to Pinecroft Dairy for ice cream - as I hold them alongside the things our kids are doing. While my parents are essentially surrendering some initiative, the lives of our kids are unfolding as young adults. They are studying important things, loving, renting a first apartment, exploring universities, working hard, blossoming. As I write this, off to my left is a photo of the three of them taken about 16 years ago, when they were eight, five, and just under a year in age. The photo was taken at a phase in our lives when we'd likely hop in the car and roll down the windows and enjoy the late-summer air on the way to get some ice cream (I am leaving out any reference to the dentist here - nostalgia permits that). 

Both of my parents have shared countless nuggets of wisdom throughout my life. My Dad has a favorite that he used to share just after one of us kids had accomplished something of note. like an earned degree or a memorable trip. He would say, "They can never take that one away from you." I am not sure who "they" are, but I know that I used to have at least some fear that time itself could steal from me. I worry about that less now, as I am figuring out a new relationship with time as something more fluid. 

Time once loomed like a beast marching in linear progression, disintegrating what I knew and pulling me toward the unknown. Now it swirls and meanders more "like an ever rolling stream" (thank you, Isaac Watts), changing to be sure but also connecting. There is something eternal and mysterious in the simultaneous transformations of my parents and my children, and it is more reassuring than I thought it would be. It truly is beautiful.