Kelly Rogers

Writer focused on fiction for middle-aged women with spunk


Next to a field of wildflowers, under the last of the summer moons, we hosted a bonfire for my son’s marching band.

As diverse as those flowers, the musicians gathered around a volleyball net and played, laughed, and lived fully in this moment of youth.

I remembered my son, little and indignant. He was quiet, sometimes full of scorn and a shyness that was hard to crack open. Here he was now, long limbs, deep voice, full of humor and leadership. He talked to everyone, including adults, with confidence and kindness.

Watching the leader of the band he had become, I knew that my greatest pleasure in growing older would be watching my kids turn into the adults I knew they could be. I wasn’t losing time, I was gaining it with this new Zavier playing his trumpet, marching to his new beat.


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