I came home the other day after a long, tiring afternoon, juggling errands and endless to-dos. As I approached my front porch, something caught my eye — a scattered constellation of shoes.
They weren’t just any shoes. They were sneakers, flip-flops, sandals, and worn-out kicks, left behind like footprints of a season in full bloom. These shoes tell a story. They whisper of a house full of laughter, a house alive with teenagers whose energy fills every corner.
These shoes are the unmistakable sign that summer has arrived — that school’s out, schedules have relaxed, and the quiet hum of routine has burst into joyous chaos.
They mean there’s probably no food left in the fridge, just empty wrappers and crumbs telling tales of midnight snacks and late-night talks.
They mean music is playing somewhere — maybe a phone speaker blasting a favorite playlist — and the air is thick with the sounds of friendship, inside jokes, and unfiltered joy.
They mean that somewhere on my couch, or maybe floating in the pool, or fiercely competing at the air hockey table, my kids and their friends have made this place their sanctuary, their hangout, their summer home away from home.
I stood there for a long moment, my hand resting on the doorframe, letting a wave of bittersweetness wash over me.
Because these shoes — scattered and unassuming — are a symbol of so much more than summer fun.
These shoes belong to a group of kids who have been coming here for years — four summers of shared memories, of growing up side by side. Some have played on the same teams, shared classes since elementary school, navigated first crushes and heartbreaks together.
Most of these kids just graduated high school. This summer is their last summer here before life pulls them in different directions — college campuses, new cities, fresh adventures.
They say you only get eighteen summers with your children.
This summer marks the eighteenth for me.
And that truth settles in my chest with a weight I can’t ignore.
How did eighteen summers pass so quickly?
The big changes are coming — not just for them, but for me, too. The house will soon feel quieter. The laughter will be more distant. And yet, my heart aches and swells all at once, knowing this is part of the beautiful, painful dance of parenthood: the letting go.
My mind understands it’s good — necessary even. But my heart feels the ache of this transition deeply.
I cherish these shoes on my porch because they mean my children are home — safe, surrounded by friends, with a place to belong.
I know these shoes won’t linger much longer. Soon, they’ll be scattered across dorm rooms and apartments, taking their first steps into independence. And with that, some may not return next summer, off chasing their own stories in the world.
That thought looms like a shadow, threatening to steal the joy from today. But I shake it off. I remind myself not to let the sorrow of what’s coming steal the sweetness of now.
This summer — this eighteenth summer — every moment tastes a little bittersweet, but it is precious all the same.
So I’ll embrace these shoes. I’ll stock up on snacks and open my doors wide. I’ll let these kids crash on every couch and fill every corner with their noise.
I’ll soak in their laughter, even when it echoes off the walls. I’ll make them clean up the messes they leave behind.
I’ll pray for safe drives home under the starry skies.
And most of all, I’ll choose joy in this moment. I will hold tightly to this present — this last summer of shoes on my porch — because these moments, right now, are really good.
And someday soon, those shoes will carry them out into the world — exploring, discovering, living. And my porch will be quiet.
But for now, this summer, this porch full of shoes, this house full of life — it is everything.
And I will treasure it with all my heart.
— Inspired by Heather Duckworth