By Icy Frantz
Last week I received a letter from an old friend — snail mail, on personalized stationery. Oh, how I still love that. We had gone to grade school together, and I probably hadn’t seen her since morning recess, both of us in our green-and-yellow uniforms with our hair pulled back in braids. How kind of her to reach out, and what a great reminder to connect with others not only in times of sadness, but also in times of triumph.
In her note she said something that struck me:
“It’s such a blow, and a reordering of the world — even if we know it’s coming.”
And That is where I want to begin today: the reordering of my l world.
Like many, I watched The Summer I Turned Pretty — first to steal precious time with our daughter, and then on my own because I simply had to know if Team Conrad or Team Jeremiah came out ahead. (Don’t worry, no spoilers here.) I mention it not because of the love triangle but because of the title. It reminded me of my own season:
The Summer I Turned 60.
The Summer We Dropped Off Our Youngest Child at College.
The Summer My Mother Passed Away.
Yes, it has been a colossal reordering of my world. My friend’s words were spot on.
In July, I turned 60. Of course, it didn’t happen all at once. One day on the calendar didn’t mark the shift. It unfolded slowly — as I resisted (kicking and screaming) and then, eventually, accepted that I had entered a new decade.
It felt as if I was standing over my carry-on suitcase — the fancy one with wheels — and forced to decide what to bring on this adventure and what to leave behind.
Out went the “just in case” items: the dress I hoped would one day fit, the shoes that looked good but pinched. In went the elastic waist banded pants for comfort and the sensible shoes that would let me walk without blisters towards what’s next.
When the suitcase clicked shut, it felt lighter. Not filled so much with material things, but with what matters most: connection, family, laughter, love. Health, both physical and mental. A sharper sense of priorities, and a desire to slow down and enjoy.
It’s not that those things weren’t always there — but they were often buried beneath the miniskirts and sequined tops. (no longer needed)
When we dropped our daughter at college, I learned quickly that the process is very different for daughters than sons. With the boys, it was a few duffels and a quick goodbye. With our daughter, it was an all-day affair: building shelves, hanging lights, arranging pillows, and lining drawers in a quirky triple with very little storage. Backbreaking work in an un–air-conditioned dorm room, yes — but I loved every minute.
In that time, I began to consider the enormity of the moment. In the weeks that followed, people asked how I was doing. And though she was actually physically closer than she had been during her gap year, the start of college still signified something — a reordering of my world.
It felt as if I was unpacking an old suitcase, dusty and worn, but long forgotten beneath my bed.
For years, I had packed: muddy cleats, football pads, racquets, eye protection, mouthguards molded just so, science projects, permission slips, teacher appreciation notes, and textbooks.
But now, in the reordering, I was looking into my own suitcase. The one with aspirations long postponed. Courses I had wanted to take. Lectures that interested me. Skills to master. A dance class. A spontaneous late night out on a “school night.” Time to prioritize my own connections, my own purpose.
The empty nest, I am learning, isn’t about absence. It’s about rediscovery. About unpacking what I once put away for later. And—it’s later.
But the deepest reordering came with my mother’s passing. Nothing prepared me for it. Nothing has impacted me quite the same.
I feel like I’ve been promoted to “the grown-up,” and I’m not sure I like it. I want to pick up the phone and call her, but I can’t. I wonder if I said all I needed to say, and I know I didn’t. Very simply put, I miss her.
And yet, this is the reordering my friend spoke of. It doesn’t feel like repacking a carry-on or unpacking an old suitcase. It feels like I’ve been handed a new bag altogether, and it will take a while to maneuver it and figure out what’s inside. It’s unfamiliar. Would I even recognize it at the baggage claim?
But I know I will grow accustomed to it — this new bag, stretched by grief but lined with love. I will hear her voice in it and in me when I say, “We’re going to be late,” or “It’s okay to ask for help,” or when I bring the pearled onions to the Thanksgiving dinner.
There will be moments of humor, I am sure. I’ll smile at the snacks she packed for me — her beloved Fresca, her not-so-beloved mashed potatoes. Or I will grab a lipstick from my purse and apply it just so, like she did every time she left home, even in her final months.
(As an aside my mom was a collector- green glass, Majolica earthenware and wouldn’t you know- BAGS.)
One day, I may even be grateful for this new bag. Because though I did not choose it, it has room to carry both her memory and the tools she gave me to navigate this new reordered world of mine. And I know it is full of all the hopes and dreams she had for her once young precious daughter who is now attempting to play “grown up”.
I’m not sure when it started, but many years ago I created my own tradition. Every time our daughter packs a bag and heads out from home, I slip a note inside her clothes. Something small she’ll find later in her new surroundings — maybe a bit of wisdom, maybe something funny — but always with the same words: I love you.
And with all this reordering, I keep coming back to that. Because as corny as it may sound, love is the one thing that belongs in every bag — the carry-on, the old dusty suitcase, and the new one now resting on my shoulder.
Because love is what steadies us and lightens even the heaviest load. Love is what connects us and makes it all worth carrying, no matter the season.
Icy Frantz
the Icing on the Cake
Icyfrantz.net
