Can I Borrow the Sunshine?

9/2/2026 Written by Lindsey Graser

One of the best things about being here is that Amelia is only thirty minutes away.

People talk about becoming empty nesters like it's this natural next stage of life. The kids grow up, they fly away from the nest, and Mama keeps on going.

Well, that's for the birds.

Birds don't get a say. We humans do.

And I say "let's be closer."

Especially when being closer is in alignment with what you need anyway. We needed to be here for Charlie's care. I needed some sunshine. And after a year of having my daughter hours away from me, thirty minutes sounded much more tolerable.

Her dad came down to help move her into her apartment and ended up being our first houseguest. On her second day there, I went over and showed her how to grill chicken.

She was meal prepping.

On day two.

I was so friggin proud of her.

Last year, leaving her at college was different. I drove back to New York afterward, and the heartbreak was unbearable. It was also the day of my friend's funeral that I was unable to attend.

So this year, when Amelia realized she'd left her drying rack at Uncle Jeff's house, where she'd stored her things over the summer, and needed to come get it, I was pretty happy to have an excuse for her to come over.

And if Amelia was coming over, I was making chicken pesto.

It's her favorite.

Then the rain came. Not just rain. One of those huge downpours where you're not going anywhere for a while. So Amelia stayed to wait it out.

I realized I had very little to entertain her with. Most of our things are still back in New York. In one of the totes of personal belongings we'd brought with us, though, I remembered there were two games.

One was Scrabble.

I hadn't played it in a long time.

Scrabble was my mom and Grandpa. I pulled out the box, opened it up, and there, tucked inside, were pictures of us playing together.

Wow, what a wonderful memory.

So Amelia and I played Scrabble while we waited for the rain to stop.

• 

• 

And then, for that first week, that basil plant just sat in our apartment making me happy.

Unfortunately, our apartment has virtually no sunlight.

Outside our building there is a bench where I'd noticed a woman sitting sometimes on her cigarette breaks. I'd met her once. So I carried the basil plant outside and left it near the bench with a note:

I am trying to come back to life. Can I borrow the sunshine?

The next day I saw the woman and went outside to check on the basil.

"I hope it's okay I left it out here," I said.

She replied: "Her name is Samantha. I've been talking to her, but she's not too happy. I hope I'm saying the right things."

"I'm sure you are."

I went right to the plant.

"I'm not good at taking care of plants. I don't know how long basil even lasts down here in the South. Maybe they're not meant to last very long."

"She can hear you," the woman said.

Right. Samantha.

She told me the beetles had taken a liking to her, but we were going to try to help her. She'd thought about buying Miracle-Gro, but she didn't know whose plant it was and didn't think she ought to take the liberty. You just have to mix part of the original soil with the Miracle Grow so you don't shock the root system.

"I can grow anything but men and money," she told me.

She showed me where Samantha still had some green and where she would pinch off the pieces that weren't. I gave her permission, but she said "no, honey, I'll let you do that."

I doubted in this 100 degree heat Samantha was going to come back. "We're going to try," she said. So I went and bought some Miracle Grow, and we'll see what happens...

--

The way she cared for that plant reminded me of a day this summer when a friend and I climbed Pinnacle Hill.

When we reached the top, we found a sick raccoon. It turns out it's not particularly easy to tell animal rescue people how to find a sick raccoon at the top of a hill with no real marker points. But my friend was determined and stayed on the line until we knew they were on their way.

And at the top of that hill, I lit a candle for the friend whose funeral I'd never made it to. On the tree, someone had spray painted "Don't Die."

I had backup that day.

It made all the difference in the world.

Before I left New York, that same friend made me a bracelet. We'd talked about getting butterfly tattoos.

Tonight, I was sitting on top of a lifeguard stand.

I looked out over the cool blue water. Music was playing. Kids were jumping off the diving board.

I remember sitting there thinking, How did I end up here?

And then, for whatever reason, I kept hearing:

You don't understand.

But trust me.

I watched the people around the pool talking to each other. I listened to how they interacted.

This is it, Lindsey. You need to be reminded of what life is.

The sound of people talking, splashing, having fun. Feeling the sun on your face.

And just then, a butterfly landed on my hand.

It startled me.

I shooed it away.

Then I realized what it was.

"Oh shit. A butterfly."

I felt bad that I'd tried to get rid of it. I watched it fly away and actually tried to ask it to come back.

It didn't. It was already on its merry way.

I cannot fathom what is coming next.

I made all the plans to get us to this point.

I think maybe the point now might just be to start living. Not figuring. Not planning.

On break, there was great discussion about what snack another lifeguard should get... french fries versus tater tots.

Crispy. Seasoned. Hot. Cold. Salty.

Another guard eventually weighed in.

Somewhere in the middle of this discussion, I realized that life was slowly becoming more about living life... than just watching it.

I'm coming back to life. Thank you for the sunshine.