I’ve walked these streets so many times with this child.

I remember when she’d ride in a carrier against my chest, both of us bundled tight against the winter cold. Then, later, behind me in a bike trailer, laughing while I went way too fast. And now she’s on her own bike, and I’m the one trying to keep up.

Life comes at us; the seasons change.

I’ve lived in this neighborhood a long while. Raised a family here. Helped friends move in and move out— this house, that one, the next. And I love living here: the tree-lined streets, the corner shops—Caputo’s, The King’s English, Casot. There’s a park just up the way, Wasatch Hollow Preserve, where the dogs can run free. I remember the night the creek burst its banks— chaos, homes flooding in the dark. I lost my wedding ring throwing sandbags that night.

Life comes at us; the seasons change.

Uintah Elementary has been good to us. Beautiful building. Great teachers. Engaged kids. This one’s in third grade. We saw another all the way through—she’s fourteen now. No trick-or-treating with us anymore. Soon she’ll be driving. Driving.

Life comes at us; the seasons change.

The older kids have left home, but we are still their center of gravity. Their orbits bring them back— a meal, a little money, a hug that says: you’re doing just fine.

It can feel bittersweet, watching this passage of time until we remember life isn’t only coming at us. It’s also coming from us. We are its co-creators. And these seasons aren’t a drumbeat reminding us we’re getting older, but a gentle nudge of how precious each moment is because each moment is all we really have. And all we’ve ever really had.

Friends move. A shop closes. The waters rise. And still—we are here.