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July 10, 2000
Something has to give to allow the time to
spend in the hospital with my very sick son. Time is required to drive
there and back.
So the housework is the first thing on the
list.
Who cares?
The dust can hang heavy from the ceiling fan
- no one is here to see it but me.
It's familiar.
Leave it alone.
There's cat hair on the couch. Glad someone
sits there.
A coffee stain stares up from the rug where
I walked into a table and dribbled.
Like Lady MacBeth, out, out damned spot, it
keeps coming back.
The dishes aren't very prevalent.
I am not tripping over empty glasses. I am
not juggling plates in a round-up.
I run the dishwasher less often, just to keep
it running.
There are no empty water bottles or soda cans
scattered on the floor.
There is not much trash to put out.
No scattered socks. Dropped shoes.
No laundry piles in the hallway to trip over.
No piles of shorts behind the bathroom door.
No blaring MP3 music coming from his room.
No random hugs or wise-ass remarks.
The house, full of furry children, is empty.
It is hard to get up, hard to move fast.
Where am I hurrying? I am shell-shocked and
stunned.
It's hard to move. Hard to think.
I have to concentrate. What do I need for
work? What do I need for the hospital? Is today a gym day? Then I go over
at noon. If not, then I go over at night. What do I bring?
Where is the phone number? When can I call?
Is tonight a night I should sleep? How?
40 e-mails back up - when can I answer?
The proofs from the calendar are in the car.
If he's up to it - we will look at them.
He's my color guide. The artist.
I want to keep him interested in things.
I need to order pizza.
I promised.
I need to think up ads, respond to marketing,
fill out forms, run labs. People pull at me. I cannot move.
It is hard to sleep because my house is empty.
I have no time to clean, no time to worry
about it.
I still get up quiet - forget he isn't here
in the early morning pre-coffee haze.
I can't find my glasses - that's his job.
I need to get gas. And dollar bills. For the
bridge and the parking lot.
I need to check the mail - that's his job.
I carry in groceries and haul out the trash
alone.
It's an effort to function.
I need him home.
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