Last night, I watched Elizabeth leave my house for perhaps the last time.
She's been coming to our house once a week for ten years. Ten years! And now we've put an end to it, and I'm sad.
Elizabeth has been our piano teacher, friend, fellow animal-lover. She taught my son, until he decided piano wasn't really for him. She taught both my daughters, until last night. They've also decided they have other priorities right now. And she taught me. But with a full-time job, three kids and a dog, I've reluctantly admitted to myself that I will never get to practise enough, if at all, so it makes no sense to continue taking lessons right now. Maybe I'll find time again, someday.
My rational self knows we are doing the right thing. My other self, however, is weary of all these transitions. Kids grow up, they change, they make their own decisions about what's right for them. As they should. But I long for the easy days of three little kids doing what we ask them to do, all in a pack, soaking up every experience we give them. Full of hope.
I know I'll see Elizabeth as much as I'd like to. We've developed a pretty good lunch habit. But I'll miss the sound of her voice at the piano, chatting with my kids about her life, their lives. I'll especially miss the beautiful sounds they've made in our living room. I've told my girls that for awhile, at least, I will call them to the piano Mondays at 6:15 pm to play, while I do the dishes.
A slow transition, for me.