After a full and happy visit with Peter's family, we usually stand on the covered front porch as they load into their van, get all the legs and arms and buckles and blankets in the right place, and slide their doors shut. Then we wave goodbye as they drive along the front of the house, not turning back to the warmth of the house until we see taillights. Sometimes, especially this time of year when the air is sharp and woodfire warmth beckons from the other side of the door, I wait to come out until the car is loaded so I can just give a quick wave and scurry back inside. Or I open the door a crack and bid farewell from inside.
But recently, Peter and company have been visiting on Sunday evenings. I leave at 6:00 to go to youth group on Sundays, slipping out in the midst of getting supper on the table, changing diapers, picking up toys, and story telling. I call a farewell to the busy, happy group and head to the laundry room to slip on shoes and get my keys. Peter comes running down the hall, arriving in the laundry room with open arms. "Kisses and hugs!" he reminds me, a twinkle in his eye as if he is delighted to have remembered something I forgot. We share a kiss and a hug, and then Peter runs back through the living room to the front door. "Let's wave to Aunt Jewey!" he calls into the hubbub, but his call goes mostly unheard.
When I get out to my car, coat zipped up to my chin against the chill, Peter is standing in stocking feet on the edge of the porch, hand cocked in readiness for a wave. "See ya, Peter!" "See you, Aunt Jewey!" we call to each other. He watches, waits, as I turn my car around, and then both hands come up for an eager double wave as I drive in front of the porch. I can't see when he goes inside; he waits on the porch until I am out of sight.
