Out of Empty Nest Valley

To our left, the Santa Lucia Mountains jutted into the cornflower blue western sky.

To our right, the Pinnacles Mountains rose likewise into the cloudless east. 

And rushing alongside our tour bus windows in a blur of emerald, teal, mint and kelly green was the verdant flat patchwork quilt of California’s Salinas Valley.

The tour guide’s microphone crackled with upbeat commentary.

“Nestled between two mountain ranges, the Salinas Valley offers the perfect soil and climate for lettuce, asparagus, cabbage, tomatoes, carrots, kale, broccoli, and grapes,” he said. “We call it America’s salad bowl.”

Tourists on the bus chuckled.

Not me. I reached for a tissue to dab my eyes and blow my nose. Sitting next to me, my husband, Tom, rolled his eyes as if to say, “Here we go again.” In a gesture of understanding, he reached for my hand. But I pulled away, and glumly turned my face to the window.

I’d read about empty nest syndrome in magazines, listened to older friends talk about it, but never had experienced it first-hand. Until now. 

Only two months earlier, Tom and I had said goodbye to our son and daughter as they went off to college. But it felt like two years had passed.

Although the hot California sun blazed in the autumn sky and the tour guide told us that it was a seasonable 82 degrees outside, a cold lonely wind swept through my heart.

It wasn’t that I had too much time on my hands. With two hefty tuitions to pay, I was working harder than ever. Instead of feeling down in the dumps, I should be grateful and happy for the opportunity to join Tom on his business trip to California. After all, wasn’t this exactly the sort of grown-up vacation getaway we had dreamt of for so many years?

I pressed my forehead harder against the cold glass window, and vivid memories rushed through my mind, fast as the passing scenery…

Lullabies… bedtime prayers… birthday parties… Christmas mornings… hamsters… tricycles… training wheels… skinned knees… more hamsters!… lemonade stands… ballet recitals… piano lessons… science projects… slumber parties… first dates… driving lessons... high school proms… graduations…

Each tender memory was like a little death, each deserving its own time for grieving. But it was too much loss to process. Too much change, too fast!