By Amy Keyes 
How quickly I find myself here again.
The summer before senior year.
Standing at the intersection of a series of endings and beginnings I’ve been through once before, but not sure I feel ready to navigate just yet this last time around.
It’s this really strange stage of life that I find myself in. The middle-aged years on the cusp of empty nesting, knowing these days and years of a full summer house are numbered.
And as I sit here, what strikes me most is that these versions of ourselves are so different from who we were last year at this time, and who we are now will never be the same again. Because I’m realizing in all of these transitions and times of monumental change, we evolve separately.
For the here and now, we have the privilege to meet those different versions of each other in the moments when we reunite.
My older son recently returned home from his first year of college. Certainly, some things feel like the familiar old version of him: clothes all over the floor, lounging in the same spot on our couch, dishes piled in the sink, the sound of the blender making his ritual smoothie at all hours of the night.
Yet he is not the same person he was a year ago when he left.
The change is subtle and hard to describe. It’s an independence that runs deeper. A curiosity piqued higher than ever with all the wonders college has introduced. A feeling that I’m no longer talking to a kid, but instead to a young adult who is truly taking the reins of his own life.
It’s like meeting an old friend after a significant time apart. Falling into old patterns and habits with ease and comfort, yet something feels slightly new. It’s like there is a new light shining on this person you know like the back of your hand, but you have so much to discover about this new version of them.
Bits of this new self seep out in those lucky moments when schedules align and we can sit down together. The way we used to for dinner. Or on our way to a family function. It’s like a slow burn of rediscovery. Glimpses into how the past year’s experiences have shaped this version of one of the people I love most in the world. I know I won’t get it all at once, and by the time I get to really know this new person, it will be time to evolve again.
I watch as this new version of him navigates getting to know the new versions of us. The ones who have lived with one fewer family member for a year. Who have developed a flow and rhythm for three, always missing that flow and rhythm of the fourth, but also marching on with time.
I bear witness to the relationship of siblings who have such a strong bond, despite no longer being a part of each other’s daily lives in person. This figuring out a new relationship based on who they both have grown into. The realization that my younger one is also a different version of who he was last year at this time. Balancing school, college readiness, work, and a serious girlfriend. Preparing to walk into his last year of high school and a brand new chapter of life.
And I realize this will happen over and over again. Summer after summer. Decade after decade. Subtle at first, and then monumental in the beauty of a bond that can stay true over the many versions of ourselves.
It reminds me of those super cool paintings that change before your eyes. You blink, and when you look back, something completely different is in front of you. You don’t know all the magic that made the change happen, but it makes you want to stare longer, be present, and try to soak in every detail before it changes again.
So that’s my intention. To live in the version of who we are now. And to embrace the countless versions that we will inevitably become in this beautiful journey of life.
by Tanya Teichroeb 
