Looking Back
(from a grandparent’s heart)
I blinked—
and the house fell silent.
The toys disappeared,
the voices faded away,
and the walls
whispered memories
like snapshots I forgot to take.
I still recall the days
when little feet darted
through my kitchen,
leaving behind
crumbs, giggles,
and a kind of mess
I never knew I’d long for this much.
I wasn’t always this gray,
this slow,
this soft.
Once, I balanced babies on my hip
and grocery bags in the other hand—
I was needed
in a hundred small ways
every single day.
And how I rushed.
Rushed through baths,
through bedtime routines,
through stories
that deserved more patience.
But I was tired.
And young.
And believed I had all the time in the world.
Now I sit quietly on the porch,
watching the breeze
as if it’s carrying some gentle truth.
I hum lullabies
to the empty air
and hope
that the love I gave
is still felt somewhere.
Because on quiet days,
when the phone stays still,
I drift back—
to those tiny fingers,
the sticky kisses,
and the wild, beautiful chaos
I once begged to escape.
It’s strange,
how what once exhausted me
is now what I miss the most.
So if you’re in the middle of it all—
tired, overwhelmed, stretched thin—
please pause.
Take it in.
Hold on tight.
Because one day,
you’ll blink too.
And you’ll ache
to relive
just one of those chaotic, precious days
all over again.