I’m roasting marshmallows as I write this. Alone.

We got this outside fire pit so that our family – beginning its orderly disintegration as our oldest approaches college age – would have an excuse to hang out together every once in a while. (I particularly enjoy it when my sons compete for who can make mom the best marshmallow.) But we rarely hang out here – or anywhere – together anymore. I seem to enjoy the fire pit more than anyone, and so here I sit alone at our symbol of togetherness, eating marshmallows I’m cooking myself.

And I’m unbelievably happy.