Home Again
For the first time in well over a week I woke up this morning without having to worry I was disturbing either a camping companion or a tiny grandchild. I had the freedom to cough, scratch, or sniff at my leisure. I could turn on lights, make my coffee, sit at my desk and write. I guess you could say it’s good to be home. Alone. It is.
Of course, none of this means the past week was anything but a pleasure. It was great. I shared a good friend’s trailer as we camped and hiked Big Bend. He was a wonderful host. Then my grand-kids came just as I got home from that trip. They were a delight, too. Now, however, I’m back from Big Bend and the grand-kids are gone and it’s just me and my house. I forgot to start my new dishwasher last night. So, it’s cranking this morning. And I’m sitting here writing and talking out loud, but because that’s typically how I write. It helps me get the rhythm of the words.
I guess this is a sign I’m adjusting to the solitary life. Charting my own course. Beholden to no one. Except, we’re always beholden to someone. Kids, friends, family, obligations. People to think of. People to consider. Everything we say or do has consequences, some intended. Some otherwise. And words have this weird tendency to flip right over in mid-air and become something entirely different as they reach the intended listener. I guess, in a sense, there’s always someone sleeping right outside our door, and if we care about them, we should tread lightly lest we disturb them.
John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale