Often the days are filled with messes, his boots tossed in the middle of the floor.
Frustration. Aggravation.
But remember those days when his boots were far away,
And the house was filled with a hollow quiet.
Not a sound.
Only my restless footsteps scattered on the floor,
So silent.
No laughter, no music, only the ceaseless crawling, ever crawling
Time
Of minute
By minute,
Hour
By hour...
Day by unending day
One after another, yet it seemed to never move, that time of waiting, waiting, waiting.
Hurry up and wait they said. And forever wait I did, in that
Empty
Quiet house where his boots did not tread, did not track in mud and soggy gear and sweat-soaked cammies, all piled up on the floor of my memory.
So I paced the empty floors of the quietly clean house willing the slow painfully void-filled months
To speed up.
Now, however, I have those muddy boots back, as tripping hazards on the dusty floors, and I am rather too busy to clean them.
Because he's home.
I can identify so much with this. Sometimes I catch myself mentally complaining about the tools on the table, the wood shavings on the bathroom counter, the miscellaneous bits of metal in the dryer screen. But those messes were made by my best friend who was doing the kinds of things that I love most about him. I would never trade his messes for anyone else. Even if I sometimes do trip over them. :-)
ReplyDeleteNice sentiment.
ReplyDelete