Handprints on the Door

“The glass door sure is clear and clean, not a spot on it, ” I commented to Lori, admiring the front door. I surveyed our living room and kitchen. Lori had set the pillows in perfect position on our bed (I once took a picture of her arrangement so I could duplicate the exact placement); the rug had vacuum marks, proof that it was clear of any debris; the dishes were neatly in place; the kitchen cabinets sparkling; and all the bathrooms had that aromatic combination of candles burning and disinfectant pureness. Lori had put all the laundry away, and fresh sheets clothed each bed. 

I smiled and breathed deeply with satisfaction. 

And then everyone arrived.

Not long after I had surveyed my pristine domicile, David Jr., his wife, Kayla, their 16-month-old baby, Stella, and canine, Sadie (a rescue dog that looks suspiciously like a Blue Heeler) arrived for a weekend visit. A couple of hours after that, our daughter, Madi (anxious to see her older brother, no doubt), son-in-law, John, and their kids, Eli, Emmie, and six-month-old baby, Noah Kate, entered immediately, carrying in the pizza. 

As I was helping David carry some of their luggage in, I glanced at our dog, Max, and noticed Sadie trying to entice him into a game of chase. Max sat stoically, trying to ignore the younger, feisty dog, a mere adolescent to Max. If assisted living existed for dogs, Max would have a room where he would stare out the window and then sleep and sleep and sleep. How would Max respond to this upheaval in his sedentary lifestyle?  

Later, Emmie (age 6) begged to stay the night, wanting more time with baby Stella, Uncle Dave, and Aunt “KK.” How could you turn that sweet child down? 

And so it went for the weekend: Waking up to the giggles of younguns already up and geared for play; stepping out of the children’s way as they ran in and out of the house;  wiping wet grass off doggie’s paws and kids’ shoes; furniture rearranged to make room for babies and rambunctious little ones; and the repeated question, “Can you play ball, PopPop?” (Of course, I can. I’m PopPop.)

Sunday afternoon David and I were playing catch with ten-year-old Eli. I chuckled while Stella watched us at the glass door, grinning and banging on the glass with her little hands while we played. Then Emmie joined her, helping her younger cousin pretend to cheer. 

Between the outdoor and indoor playing with the kids, we all swapped stories of how these kids of ours—now with children of their own—had grown up in this house. We laughed and cried and then laughed at our crying. And then we longed for the three that weren’t with us, two in New York and one in heaven. And through the shouts and murmurs, dogs barking, and dishes clanging—joy bubbled up and spilled over. I wanted to grasp everyone and hold each one tight, bottling each moment.

Then everyone left as quickly as they had arrived. 

And it was quiet again. Lori and I collapsed on the couch and stared, taking in the stillness. 

The next day, as I returned to the house after walking to our mailbox, I noticed the front door. It was no longer clear and clean as it had been before everyone arrived. I could see Stella’s little hand prints and the smudge of Emmie’s too. And there were doggy nose prints from Sadie. I smiled. 

No dogs barking, kids running, adults chattering, no grandchildren singing or calling me outside to play. 

I missed the feel of their hugs around my neck, their wet kisses, and that look in their eyes that said, “Your mine, and I’m yours.

Standing still there on the front porch steps, I felt empty.

But only for a moment, for looking at their handprints on the door, I felt their presence and was filled with their love.