The house at rest. Counter tops are clear; cups, plates, books, important envelopes that need to be mailed — they all remain where I put them.

I fall into the quiet slowly. Silence becomes a place I long for. Because it’s not really silence. Like the color black that is all colors, it is the presence of all sounds.

Our raucous family dinners on the deck; they are there. And so is last Thursday evening, when Suzanne and I  talked at the kitchen table as the room darkened around us. The girls’ younger selves are there, too, flitting around like house sprites, keeping me company.

I’m home alone.

Or am I?