my hours

A delicious kind of silence has overcome the usual humdrummity of the house. No distant boards creaking in response to a footstep, however light. Only the whirling mechanics of the refrigerator hear the snappy keys as I type. I am alone but for the dog who is napping, and the cat who has commenced outdoor adventures.

All day I have looked forward to these two or three hours of the house all to myself. Each car that slows makes my heart beat in disappointed anticipation, fearing the worst: someone has come home. Not that I don't want them home. No, indeed, I love when our house is full and lively, singing and footsteps echoing through the halls. After a while, it will get too lonely here anyway.

What is so enticing about having the house to myself? I honestly don't know completely. Part of it may be the freedom. I can dance (which I do), sing at the top of my lungs, take the stairs two at a time, explore nooks and crannies without fear of another voice to interrupt my doings. Memories come to life, drifting around my vision like misty rain. Each movement is a secret, no one seeing or hearing in our far from soundproof house. It is nothing I would ever hide, yet, the secretiveness is thrilling in a small and enjoyable way.

I must, however, take my leave; songs are impatient to be sung and the kitchen has asked me to dance...

"Language... has created the word "loneliness" to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word "solitude" to express the glory of being alone."

Paul Johannes Tillich