Silence, and Breath

My family has gone and I am here alone.  Even the cicadas have chosen to be silent.  I can hear the sporadic tap-tapping of my keyboard and the sound of my own breathing.  When is the last time that I listened to my breath?  I’ll tell you: it was forever ago, when I wrote “Life”.  Everybody was in bed and the house was quiet then, as well.

My family means the world to me.  They’re vibrant.  My husband will have the radio, TV, and computer on at the same time because he’s used to noise and it makes him comfortable.  My son is the same way.  He doesn’t speak but he laughs.  My daughter wants to be pressed warmly into my side at all times.  She babbles and demands and sings.  It’s sweet.  These are the sounds of happiness.

But my happiness was always found in my own space.  My brain harbors not only my thoughts, but the thoughts of countless characters, so any outside noise only adds to the cacophony.  I need a chance to be whole.  Do you know what I plan to do tonight?  I plan to curl up in bed and watch a movie.  The end.

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