I have always enjoyed the "alone" time, yet this night, with Partner in Grime across the country slaying dragons that mind neither man nor their patents, it's too quiet. Both the dogs are asleep on the cool hardwood floor, temperatures in the mid 90's having as much allure for them as a visit to the Vet. If I called to them, they would come, docile, not to the fear of my hand, but in fidelity to a gentle word and a safe hearth. But I don't, letting them dream their doggie dreams, of UPS men bearing boxes of treats, and narcoleptic squirrels suddenly strewn upon their dreaming path.
The flowers were watered before the sun got high that morning, small creatures looking at me from perch or den, my form interchangeable to them with the other person that lives here that fills up some shallow bowls with cool water, and scatters seed and nuts on the ground when the land is cold. There is no obligation for these actions, but simply a spartan compromise with the land on which I live, drafted by circumstance and a tender heart into care for which I never officially signed on for.
This house had only had one occupant before us, a woman who was born within its walls and left only in her last days. Unmarried, her obligation was to her parents as an only child, caring for them until she too was old, and then alone. I wonder how many nights she spent here, the house too quiet; nothing around her but a few pieces of treasured pottery and somewhere, an unfinished wedding dress. Did her heart know that peace that is a place of safety and warmth or the tedium that the heart and spirit feel when they are no longer needed by those whose needs had become necessary?
I am up again at sunlight, the click-click of toenails on hardwood scratching upon my sleep, the breeze through the window bringing with it a decided chill, given the daytime temperatures. The quilt on the other half of the bed lies as quiet as a calm sea, my side churned with the twisting of limbs having fought that battle for the covers with no adversary. The light makes its way up the wallpaper in the bedroom, a pattern likely there longer than I have been alive, colors of another lifetime, waiting as if reserved for something more.
The house is quiet.
Getting to bed early and rising early has become a habit. All of those hundreds of nights I stayed up to talk to my Dad before his sleep, a call that had to be made at exactly the same time, a call that would render him agitated if it was even 5 minutes late. I used to grumble at times for that obligation, dinners that grew cold, social plans constantly canceled, choice work assignments passed upon because in doing so I'd miss that window that was one man's tick of time in a clock rapidly winding down. Now, the phone is silent, too silent. I didn't tell anyone about the time I called it just days after his death, just to hear his voice telling me he was too busy to come to the phone, only to get the disconnect notification. It was only then, that the tears I could not shed on the flight home came and I knew what I got out of those calls was much more than I ever gave.
And so, after a call that is not made, I make my way to bed, understanding, even more, those connections we have that are so fragile, wherein loneliness, having taken on almost the familiarity of an old garment, is lifted from us. I understand that grieving will eventually fade even as the tear ducts remember how to weep. I understand the faith that was my father's, looking back at times where I cried for answers for prayers I never prayed, thinking I was alone, when all along God had given me instructions as to where he kept the key to His house, and it wasn't under the mat. Dad had that faith, and I found myself donning it even as those who wore its mantle have left me with nothing but their goodbyes and future unsaid prayers.
The house is quiet.
There are the final sounds of dogs settling into sleep, Abby on the futon in my office from which she can peer down the hall to my bed, and Lorelei, in a crate she refuses to abandon at night for the comfort of a sofa, her first years knowing only such confinement. Those days for her have been obliterated as if they never had been, but for that need for that safe space in the darkness.
Outside, the traffic quiets. On certain nights the faint music from a local Irish Pub can be heard as I crawl into bed, but this night there is just the occasional sound of a car door. I displace little air, I give off no betraying sound that can mark me as either being worthy of pity or prey. I simply lay in the darkness, waiting for some insulated spark to quiet within so I can sleep.
Someone just told me that they felt I was handling things so well because I was so well "grounded". But I'm not. The ground simply exists, it does not dream of the leaves that will caress its surface after a brief blaze of glory, nor does it covet the song of the birds or the rush of small feet upon it. The earth can be walls that are safe, but they can also be a barren, cold convent. No, I'm not "grounded", I will always be one on the wind, looking down from above, simply praying that God will take notice when this sparrow falls to earth.
The last thing I see before I drift off to sleep is the form of a small vase that belonged to the woman born in this house. Sturdy, and not something anyone would call beautiful, it was found at a neighborhood yard sale not long after the house was purchased. The neighbors said it had been Blanche's and gave it over to our care. It was only fitting that it came home to rest among the only walls it had known. She may no longer know this object's weight within her hand, even as she no longer feels its lack, but I hope she is at peace, reunited with her loved ones, safe in her Father's house.
With a smile on my face, I succumb to sleep, only memories of happier times beckoning as my dreams steal wingward into the night.
The house is quiet.
.JPG)
