Anyone who has spent any time in an introductory literature class is familiar with the tendency for student to describe books, passages or poems as “bittersweet”. It usually comes after being asked about a work’s tone or narrative voice and it’s the default adjective for anything that involves mixed emotions vying for the upper hand. Those who continue to study, discuss and write about writing tend to move away from that word: it’s simple, rudimentary, sophomoric. It lacks the depth of thought and the artistic flare we often seek in our discourse — bittersweet is a variety of chocolate, not a way to describe a piece of literature.

Still, there are times where the English language fails us and there is no readily available alternative to describe the emotions being expressed or felt. Bittersweet — it brings to mind competing feelings, a kind of psychological skirmish between joy and despair, each advancing in turn before retreating in the face of a fresh surge from the opposite side. Bittersweet — simultaneously positive and negative yet never neutral. Bittersweet — like retiring a child’s toddler clothes because they have grown out of them, hiding them away in a dark recess of the garage because you cannot bring yourself to part with them, even to the most noble of charities.

You know it will happen, or that it should happen (for we never know what Life has waiting for us in the next breath), but the chapter was too beautiful and you do not want to turn to a new one. Each shirt speaks of tiny adventures in the park, first days and holidays, special events and ordinary Saturday afternoons. It is heart-wrenching folding size 3T jeans and t-shirts with favorite animals on them one last time — pajamas are especially difficult. You are reminded of a thousand little things, some of which you can see with absolute clarity and others you only recall as a feeling. That is the curse of parenthood — there is never enough time, never enough.

Yet, through the tears and the pain that accompanies them, there is brightness to be found. Retiring clothes like this means your child is doing exactly what they should be doing — living. You put these clothes away, not because of something lost but because of new things arriving — new tastes, new favorite things. Yes, it might be superheroes instead of dinosaurs now, but it is still their favorite thing and they are still there with you. A full plastic tote in the attic means there is space for a refreshed closet, one where your child can voice their preferences and you can work together on outfits instead of doing the job yourself. Yes, there is sorrow at lost opportunities and happy memories doomed to fade, but there is also reason to smile even though it may hurt your face, your sinuses being inflamed from silent crying. You realize there is more time, maybe an hour, maybe fifty years, but always a lifetime.

As I sit here in the late afternoon sunlight, surrounded by barren flowerbeds and denuded trees, it is easy to look over the edge of the precipice and stare into the dark emptiness. But what is that sound? There is a gentle breeze and it touches the wind chime behind me and, as the pendulum sways, seemingly at random, Nature still produces music — a reassuring and embracing melody that blends the bitter truths of Life with the sweetness of Love.