Missing Persons: I look at our grown-up sons and realize those little boys are never really very far away

I miss the distinctive personalities that kept our household in lively chaos. I miss the sounds of their voices (truly gone, except for an old tape recording that I cannot bear listening to). I miss the fire of their enthusiasms. They were willing to drop everything at the merest whisper of Christmas. Sitting in front of the tree, they, like those children up the street, had no thought for anything else, not even for the presents they would receive or give. The tree itself, like a great bejeweled matriarch, pulled them into its magic. That kind of concentration and contentment is, I think, childhood's special gift.

As our boys grew up, we tried to set them free with no regrets. We've managed to do so without self-pity, I think. After all, as my mother once said, 'Mother Nature does make you ready to let go.' She turns your sweet babies into great, hulking creatures who need new shoes every other month, and new jeans every three weeks, and good old Mom is no longer allowed to choose what kind. They suddenly have loud voices and loud friends and loud music, and not only that, they develop the nerve to ask you for your car keys.

Every now and then I catch a glimpse of my children even though they are now grownup, tax-paying citizens. These days, whenever they get together, they manage to say a polite hello to their parents, grandmother, and assorted family members. Shortly thereafter, we realize they have disappeared. There is a grunting and thumping from down the hall. The rest of us just smile at each other: Without even looking, we know that two of the boys are flat on the floor, arm wrestling, while the third hovers over them playing referee and waiting for his turn to take on the winner.

It's a given that when they're in the room, anything that can be juggled will be juggled, one-two-three-toss, pass to the fellow next to you. Apples, rolled-up socks, tennis balls — the air is full of flying objects. One juggling son would have been plenty. Three is chaos.

They know how to play, these tall young men, and they never have more fun than when they are playing off each other. I look at them and see that those little boys are never really very far away. They are more confident, now, and more articulate. They no longer need our advice, and even though they continue to ask us for it, they don't always follow it. They seem to love us anyway.

So I miss them, those children we reared, but all things considered, I'll settle for the way things are now.

Besides, when I feel a deep need I can look into the face of my youngest granddaughter and see my son's merry brown eyes looking back at me. And that's no small thing for which to be thankful.

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Missing Persons: I look at our grown-up sons and realize those little boys are never really very far away

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