It is the quiet of the morning. For me these days, that means when no one else is up.
As a kid, I relished being the one who was not up. I took my quiet time back then in the still of the night. It worried my mother. But I didn't require as much sleep as most people, and I loved to stay up late, mostly reading. If she made me turn out the light, I'd use the tiny orange indicator light on the switch of my electric blanket to see the words by.
Every once in a while I get a glimpse of that person, but she's not the one driving the bus in my life anymore. I don't know if it is older age, more and more responsibilities (maybe a combination of both) or all due to dysautonomia, but I am bone-tired at night. And after about eight hours, sometimes less, the coffee pot calls me out of bed. On mornings like this it is the dogs and me, the Christmas tree, and a fire. And it feels like heaven.
Harper and Brooklin are home for the holidays but gone for the weekend. Before he left, he chopped wood and stacked it by the back door, so it is easy to bring in. I haven't had to do that because he also banked several logs in the fireplace. I have a gas starter, so this morning I cranked that up to get the wood started. It alternates between simmer, crackle, and hum, and other curious sounds that probably could be attributed to the type and age of the wood, neither of which I know.
Grace is in Oklahoma City for some event with friends. Golden retriever Simba fills the ottoman at my feet and warms my toes with his heavy breath. Mugsy snuggles up to me, resting his head on the armrest of the oversized chair. Cassie the black Lab dreams in the other big chair, occasionally sleep-barking. Mocha snores, inches away, on the couch. Floof must be out exploring.
The "little" girls are snug in their beds. There's a comfort their presence there brings. I have baked a few cinnamon rolls they will be happy to see when they wake up. My mind wanders to the fact Adelaide has one more semester at home till she graduates and leaves us to go to college. I am not keen to dwell on that much right now. She makes me proud every day of her life and I know that will continue, but oh, how Stella and I will miss her. The three of us have weathered the change brought by divorce and carved out a new normal for ourselves, a new way to be at home. We are like parts of an atom--proton, electron, and neutron--and the splitting will be brutal even as I am sure it will produce new energy. I try hard, but at least internally never have been good at my kids leaving the nest.
Last night we attended "A Christmas Miracle," the cantata my sister-in-law Heathcliff sang in at the Methodist church. I am so used to directing, playing piano, and/or singing in these things. It is a weird experience to be simply a spectator. It has been a few years now, but I still hardly know what to do with myself when sitting in the crowd.
My mother sat beside me. There were intermittent moments of congregational singing, mostly songs we knew, and a few we didn't, as they were not Baptist. But that didn't stop her singing. I had a scratchy throat so I refrained. My mom's voice is earnest, angelic. There is an innocence in it that doesn't match her age. Never has. It is glorious, and the first sound I remember hearing. She has always loved to sing. How many times have I sat with her in a church pew? How many more times will I? Especially since we don't go to services together anymore, it is likely not to be very many. Once a year maybe, at a gathering like this. If she lives to be 100, that will only be 28.
There's a poem by Ada Limon called "The Raincoat" in which the speaker, an adult, reflects on the protection her mother offered her all her life. She remembers her mother driving her to doctor appointments as a child. As she drives herself home from the doctor as an adult, there's a storm, and she sees a mother take off her raincoat and give it to her daughter. She realizes, "My whole life I've been under her raincoat, thinking it was somehow a marvel that I never got wet."
It made me a little emotional to listen to my mother's voice crooning those Christmas carols. I realized I hadn't heard her sing in a while, and I didn't know how much I missed it. I never want to not hear the sound.