alsemero

Standing in the library, scanning the books on the shelves, I suddenly become aware of a noise that I haven’t noticed before; a soft ‘tac-tac … tac-tac-tac .. tac-tac’.

For a moment, it sounds as if dozens of hushed voices are repeating the same word over and over again, like a ghostly whisper echoing from the walls and ceiling and drifting across the bookshelves.

Then I realise; these ‘echoes’ are the sound of dozens of keyboards being tapped by students working at desks and tables scattered throughout the library.

“Yes, Clarissa thinks, its time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep – it’s as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself. There’s just this for consolation; an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more.”

'The Hours' by Michael Cunningham.

We have our children.

We make them the centre of our world and believe, for a time at least, that they are special not only to us but to she shop assistants, doctors, teachers, our work colleagues, bus drivers, flight attendants and everyone else who may give them a smile and a few words as they temporarily come into their orbit.

We believe, in spite of all reason and our own experience, that they will somehow retain their freshness and innocence and carry this with them as they grow and move out into the world.

We pass on our hopes, dreams and expectations in the belief that they will not make the same mistakes and will overcome the obstacles that proved to be insurmountable to us.

And as they grow and change so does our relationship with them. When they reach their teens and begin to establish themselves as individuals with their own plans, personality and outlook we realise that they are special only because they are our flesh and blood; to the rest of the world they are part of that great anonymous mass of people that is humanity and are neither better nor worse than everyone else.

It is the point at which we realise that we have to let go.

It is bittersweet of course because, while we take pride in their independence and their achievements, we also recognise that, as parents, our job is effectively done; our children still need us but not in the way that a small child is dependent on us and we look back with misty eyes at those days when we had no time, no money and no energy as if they were some kind of paradise.

We become aware too that we are that much older. We have a keener sense of our mortality and that we have just been a part of the process that will continue long after we are gone.

These thoughts have been taking shape for some time and came fully into focus recently when I dropped my son off at university. He has two older siblings who have already been through the process so the experience is not new to me. Perhaps its just that finally I’ve started to recognise that my life is re-shaping itself like all the bits in a kaleidoscope which suddenly shuffle into place as we make one final twist of the tube.