Adapting

Darwin said that the creatures that evolved most successfully were not the strongest or the most intelligent but the ones that adapted best to change. This is what I am about, now.

I'm adapting to my son's absence. He is on an extended journey, and I am childless and unhappy about it. I miss his energy, his strength. I miss the raw teenage pheromones that jangle his nerves and disturb the somnolence of our home. I thought it would be peaceful not to have him here but it's just boring. I'm finding it hard to finish things. I've started so many projects...they are not done yet. I count the days until he returns. I log onto his MySpace account just to see if he's logged on and whether any of his friends have posted comments. I write him letters. He has called, and I love the sound of his voice but it makes me miss him even more when we hang up.

I'm adapting to my retirement. I have no daily activities that I have to do, few commitments that I must meet. I am free to do what I want. What do I want?

I'm adapting to my aging body. I am middle aged. Inside, I am a teenager with nerves as raw as my son's frayed jeans. I am passionately in love for the first time. I can think about nothing but the object of my passion. I am giddy and helpless. Then I remember, no, that's not me, that's who I was. Now I'm a sober old married lady. I'm not 17. My son is.

I wish for the feeling of that first love, the passion that consumes your every waking moment and even invades your dreams. I want to care so deeply about something that I can think of nothing else. Does that pass away with the years? Did I ever care deeply? Will I ever again?

I sigh. I breathe. I wait. I adapt.