I’m sitting on my screened-in porch, just sitting here, breathing deeply, staring into the woods, not moving. The only sound is the occasional breeze rustling through the pines. I am not wrestling, carrying someone on my shoulders, swinging anyone around in a circle, or chasing anyone through the house. I’m regaining my strength, possibly.

Taylor and Kyle have just left. They are Pam’s and my 5- and 3-year-old grandchildren who have spent the last four days here, along with their parents. Taylor and Kyle are silent only in the middle of the night, and not always then. We took them to church, the Gulf, the bay, Alligator Alley, the U.S.S. Alabama, Bamahenge, Ed’s, Lulu’s, shopping for clothing and toys, and other places I cannot now recall. If this column is incoherent, it’s because I’m too tired to think clearly.

And yet, I didn’t want Taylor and Kyle to go. I hated seeing them and their parents board that plane back to Chicago. I wish they would stay here forever. I would gladly learn to enjoy round-the-clock exhaustion if Taylor and Kyle were the cause of it.

My grandparents never had to watch their grandchildren leave, because we never left. My parents had grown up across the street from each other. When they married in 1943, my father’s parents vacated their house so their son and his bride could live and raise their family in it. They built another house next door, while my mother’s parents continued to live across the street. All four of my grandparents living within shouting distance of our front porch.

It was a charmed childhood. My father was busy earning a living and my mother was a major social do-gooder about town, so they were often absent. But my grandparents were happy to have me around, or so they made me think. I was never turned away at their door, and various enticements were devised to persuade me to spend lots of time with them. My favorite dishes would be served. Laps would be vacated so I could sit in them. Bible stories and fairy tales would be read to me. I would be taken for rides in the country. My grandparents’ homes were as welcoming as my own home, more so, it sometimes seemed.

But I now wonder. Did my constant demands tire my grandparents? Did their aging backs ache from hauling me around? Was it hard for them to get up off the floor after playing a game of toy trains with me? Would they have preferred taking a nap to reading me a story? Did they sigh with relief when I finally went home?

If they did, I never got a hint of it. And I hope Taylor and Kyle didn’t get a hint of it from Pam and me last week. I’m already looking forward to the next time I see them. I wish it were this afternoon.

And then there are our four other grandchildren, Michael and Xander who live with their parents in Baltimore, and Cale and Oliver who live with theirs in Providence. The eldest of them just turned 10. They’ll be arriving for back-to-back visits in April, and I’ll get exhausted all over again. And I’m sure that, as with Taylor and Kyle, when they leave, I’ll wish I could feel that happy exhaustion every day for the rest of my life.

When Pam’s and my sons were young, I relished running and romping with them. Now that they are married and raising their own families, I love running and romping with their children. But it was easier with my sons than it is with my grandchildren, no doubt because my body was lithe and limber back then. God was wise to design things so that children are born to young adults and not to elderly geezers like me.

But I have more of one thing now than I had then. I have more time. And I would love to be able to give more of it to Taylor, Kyle, Michael, Xander, Cale, and Oliver. I love you little guys, every one of you, and I always will. Please come back again. Make it soon.

Richard H. Schmidt is a retired Episcopal priest, editor and author who lives in Fairhope. He can be reached at courier@gulfcoastnewspapers.com.