It's nearly eight in the morning. On a Saturday. And the whole house is still.
This never happens.
Ever.
Everywhere I look..., every room I wander..., there's this lonely, ghostly, ethereal..., hush.
It's so quiet. It's disturbing.
Like a crime scene.
The big kids, Sunshine and Hollywood, are away for the weekend. A Speech and Debate tournament. They spent nine hours in a van yesterday. A teacher I've never even met at the wheel. My babies' lives in his hands.
But who am I kidding? They're off to argue complicated political topics, things I can't even tell you about, because I'm not learned enough to completely understand. They'll bring home medals. Or disappointment that they'll keep to themselves. They're babies, no more.
Only The Storm is home. It's been another big week. A lot of growing.
So still she sleeps.
And Balthazar is out with his morning exercises. He'll ride miles, hit some golf balls then come home to me, kiss my head, where I tap away at the keys.
Writing.
Because it's quiet this morning, I can.
Because my heart hurts this morning, I can.
This morning is a premonition.
Our future. Mine and Balthazar's.
Our beautiful, lonely, wonderful, happy and sad, perfect, perfect future.
Grandkids might visit. Fill Saturday mornings, again. Sometimes.
