No music. No voices. Even the quiet whoosh of the furnace kicking on sounds loud. If you had asked me this weekend, I would have said the thing I needed was peace and quiet. Now that I have it, not so much.
Everything seems in suspended animation. There are chores to be done, but I am not doing them yet. I am making a shopping list to go to the store, but I am loathe to leave the house. I keep checking the box that the cat is resting in, to pet him, and give him a touch, and let him know I am near. My youngest daughter has finally stopped looking for miracles; now she just doesn’t want him to be alone at the end. Neither do I.
The weathermen have begun predicting a massive snowstorm for mid-week, so I really need to get groceries. I’ll just have to leave the house at some time today. Of course, every major storm they have predicted so far this year hasn’t materialized, or not in the near disasterous proportions they said. Perhaps part of this unease is from the weather coming, too. We used to be able to predict weather through our bones far more than having scientists tell us. My bones are restless and waiting.
The girls will be home later, and perhaps I’ll get the feeling of moving through time again. I have lessons to teach tonight, and there will be homework to help with, things to get ready for tomorrow. I’ll know there is a future. For right now, though, this moment is all there is.
This may be a very long day.