January 21st, 2007



I woke up in time, propelled by the urgency of my bladder and the heightened noise from the brightened living room; they were done with breakfast and ready to go. Pulled in for farewells, their heads are reaching to my breasts, just as they did years ago—it's the bodies which have elongated and stretched them up to these heights. "Goodbye," I say, "have fun."

We kiss and they are gone, out to the still dark silence of pre-dawn. The car was loaded last night and I turn on the kitchen light again to wave from the window; otherwise they wouldn't see me. Then I return to bed. It takes awhile to fall back asleep and in fact, the door re-opens moments later (a bag forgotten and thank goodness now instead of 2 hours down the road) and closes again with a snick.

In the quiet left behind I sleep away the morning. There is no noise to interrupt, no noise to get me up. I have nothing planned and nowhere to be today, no demands. It's all so quiet and empty and mine.

If I clean the house now, it will stay cleaned for a week. I will not have to pick up anything that I didn't put down. No dishwasher wheezing and sputtering through a wash cycle for seven days while it slowly refills with only my dinner dishes. I won't have to do laundry again until they will return, all screeching and glad, with piles of long underwear, fleece sweaters, and socks and socks and socks.

Instead of dressing, I read poetry. I answer the phone and disappoint 2 small voices asking to play. Maybe it's time for lunch: I can read at the table! Afterwards, I will have my choice of projects to keep me busy, a walk to take before the rain returns and music to keep the silence at bay. For now, I'll revel in it.