The house is silent now, and I sit in pleasant solitude, listening for the soothing sound of the tea kettle’s hum. Yet, only one hour ago, these now peaceful rooms rocked to the airy rhythms of a fourteen indefatigable feet. Attached to those feet were my seven children–seven bodies bursting with energy, seven brains brimming with ideas, seven simple souls blessing my day.

There was so much to do an hour ago, so many possible ways to pass my time. Patrick pleaded with me to read him his beachcombing book, hoping I might draw countless marine creatures to his exacting specifications. Theresa repeatedly offered to make me a cup of tea, a subtle hint that she wanted some quiet time at the table to talk. Margaret hoped for help writing her story about the princess with the six lively siblings and sat waiting patiently for me with pencil and paper in hand. Marie asked that I accompany her up the stairs to visit the new house she had set up for her dolls, while Agnes longed to discuss the wonders of poetry and alliteration, suggesting I listen to her read “Sea Fever,” a poem she only just discovered today. Maureen kept crying out, “coat, coat!” thrusting her little red jacket in my direction and leading me toward the door and the empty swings beyond.

It occurs to me now in the quiet of this room that I did not do half of those simple things. I read Patrick’s beachcombing book once, but asked Margaret to draw him the fish. Theresa and I shared some snippets of conversation over the din of the dinner table, but the water bubbling on the stove now will make my first cup of tea. I managed to help Margaret with the spelling of the word “January” for her still unfinished story and finally called upon Marie’s dolls while tucking her in to bed tonight. Agnes, I see, left “A Child’s Anthology of Poetry” on the computer table for me to find–she was kind enough to put a bookmark in “Sea Fever.” Little Maureen never did make it outside to the swings.

The truth is I would have delighted in doing each and every one of these things and doing them well, but the day darted past, as busy days often do, ending with a dash and a kiss and a bedtime prayer.

These years of our lives are so full and so fleeting that I feel as if I am a guest at a Thanksgiving Feast. Plates are passed to me at every moment, each one laden with more than I can even taste. There is turkey with giblet gravy, chestnut stuffing and mashed potatoes, corn on the cob and cranberry relish, green bean casserole and candied yams, buttermilk biscuits and brussels sprouts, pies and puddings, cookies and cakes. “Wait,” I say, sorry to see any of these good things go to waste, “I can’t eat this all at once. It is all so scrumptious that I want to savor every morsel. Can’t I try these courses one bowl at a time, or at least freeze some of it for lunch next week?”

But I already know the answer. The banquet is ready now, and it cannot be delayed. It is fresh and delicious and waiting for me to dig in. I need to make the most of it while it is still hot.