I would not dare to count the number of times I have pulled the curtains and drawn the blinds on this house once the darkness has set in. I don't why anyone should even be curious about it. But it is an act that always fills me with a sense of closure. As if I am slowly pulling the strings to the end of another day, tucking myself into another night, dreams and thick socks and a tea of herbs that promises uninterrupted sleep.
H strums his guitar. The closer you are. The nearness of you. Light little jazz chords. Small dog naps beside him, lost in reverie. One blind, I neglected to pull, is halfway up and reveals the black night beyond like solid coal wedged by the window. The house is warm. You can't hear or see anything that jars, that challenges your place in this house. But what if it did? What if it was a horrible place to be right now? Even the walls would weep I am sure of that. I might scream. The dog would pace. My sons horrified. How lucky I am this night. No other night to be counted for. Just to be in this mindful state of peace and music. Surrounded by nothing only love.
Out beyond there are foxes spinning themselves into the soil, twirling and burrowing down for the long night to come and there are the drunks gathering on Shop Street for a night of revelry. My son is settling into his books in Dublin, writing his words, struggling with the world as it presents itself to him. I am here. No change. No change? Maybe. Always a change. Always a subtle move into something new whether you like it or not. A new sentence, a strange poem, a quandary of life to present itself and then there comes the new soil delivered to the house. Placed down in big bags on the greening lawn. Rich and black and ready for planting it is. I run it through my fingers like fine sand and dream of lettuces and radishes and words all growing out of me like a speeded up version of jack in the beanstalk and at the end of it all the ogre reaches out to me, compliments my effort and invites me in for tea, an intimate chat on our mutual paths. And so it goes......and so it goes like the sun moving north to finally grant warmth to the frozen patio, the forgotten corners, huddles that haunt me incessantly. Bow to this and to all that springs forth, my hunger forgotten. For now.