Well, crap. It seems I wrote a poem of sorts. One of my friends, who much to my chagrin remembers the high school poetry phase I try to forget, will be happy to see a new work. The rest of you, well… we’ll see.
What began as something between amused and baffled reflections on not getting a whole lot accomplished while my kids are at camp turned into a more sentimental piece than I expected. The empty house is extremely nice, but there’s a part of me that looks forward to resuming our normal, chaotic routine – a routine that keeps me on my toes in every regard and fills my life with adventure, laughter, and hugs.
There’s a quiet that comes to a house
after everyone’s gone away,
and a mother realizes it isn’t the chaos
that keeps her bound-
that keeps undone the things she sees each day,
the things she’s meant to do since who knows when.
It isn’t the laughter, the shouts, the pranks, the fights.
It isn’t the snacks or the books or chores.
In the stillness of their absence
a mother waits.
And the things undone seem minuscule
in the enormity of solitude.