It's Friday, the last day in a busy week, but it will be quieter than the others have been. Yesterday the kids left in the morning, and then I dealt with sheets and towels and tidying up, rushed to do some editing, rushed out for a meeting at the museum, rushed back to do some more editing, then rushed out to my writing group. Today there will be less rushing--just a long walk, and then a day at my desk.

I was saying to friends last night that this summer has been my first experience of not crying when I part from my children. I'm sorrowful to see them go, of course, but I haven't spilled tears. I think this must be another transition: a body-understanding that my sons are adults, with satisfying lives and steady partners. And that I also am an adult, with a satisfying life and a steady partner. We no longer meet as caregiver and protected children. We are peers.

Still, it's poignant--to see them come, to see them go. To love two young men so much--and to feel their steady, dense love for me.

A cloud of love. It lingers, even when they do not.