Mountains to Miss

Chris and Colin are throwing a football and passing a frisbee in our beautiful backyard. I can see snow-capped mountains clearly, and Penny is sunning herself by my side. I’m committing this moment to memory because this season, the first days of spring in Colorado (¡Días de primavera!) is the beginning of a season of lasts.

At some point, we’ll have our last Friday nature journaling session with a group of moms who value homeschooling, finding new places to hike and explore, and helping our kids slow down and notice the natural world. It has become the most wonderful way to end a school week.

Our cars’ interiors are gross, but I’ll miss their familiarity. We’ve shared countless McDonald’s drive-thrus for Diet Cokes—just me and these cars, and whichever friend or family member on the phone had the pleasure of hearing me order. If we get a car in Spain, it’s going to be tiny, and we’ll use it so much less than here. I’ll miss rolling the windows down, tuning up the Colorado Sound, and hearing Colin grumble about my music choices.

I’m readying myself to face the many lasts headed our way: the last piano lesson with a teacher we have gotten to know over two years; last tutoring sessions with a teacher who has become a close friend; last park day with a large group of homeschooling friends; last book club meeting at a restaurant with women I admire;  last days of teaching preschool with coworkers whom I adore and a beautifully funded school to work in; last practices with friends and teammates.  

It breaks my heart to think of Colin having his last hot-tub time after swim practice with the coolest middle school boys you could hope for your son to meet. They’re talented swimmers- and even better kids. He also admires his coaches, and has learned so much on this swim team.

Lately, when I let Penny out in the evenings, I take a moment to look up at the stars in our backyard. We might not see them once we move to a more urban area, and that thought bothers me more than I expected. I do not like thinking that I might not see some of the friends we’ve made here again for quite some time. I hope everyone knows they’re part of our story—they’ll be carried along with me in my heart. I often think about my life as a big story: some people appear in every single chapter, others are sprinkled in here and there, but they’re all part of the book, and all the characters matter.

As I savor these lasts, I also have to face the practical side of our move. The visa isn’t finalized yet, but we move forward as if it will be. We’ve paid a deposit for the boys’ school, are hunting for an apartment, and I’m actively downsizing our belongings. Even amid all this planning, I know it’s just as important to honor the emotional journey—the memories, the connections, and the little everyday moments we’ll carry with us.