This morning I returned to earth at 9:21 a.m. The sounds of a made-in-the-eighties cartoon pressed through the doors of my bedroom, elbowing past the hum of my floor fan, and tapped my subconscious on the shoulder. One of the dogs had curled himself next to me, wedging me on my side. I suppose it was my tingling right arm that brought me back in the end. I felt for the dog’s back and pushed him over, sitting up halfway. I blinked away eleven hours.
The first day of getting back to things.
It has been eighteen days since I’ve truly slept, paid attention to the kids, written, or been quiet for that matter. I’m worn. Every day I’ve spent with family (first husband’s, then mine) has been a gift. I am reminded that, other than my faith, my family is really all I need in the end. And if I had the choice to surround myself with my sisters and their children on a more permanent basis, I would. I’d wrap them around me like a mink coat, aware of the luxury.
But I am a girl who longs for quiet, who craves routine. These things are important for my long-term survival. I’m ready to slip back into the familiar warp and weft of my life, such as it is. Ready for the odd moment of fruitful nothing.
Husband leaves for Africa next week so life won’t be strictly normal in the days to come. But I will spend many night hours staring and thinking hard and writing when he’s gone. When he arrives home he’ll recognize me. I’ll have put myself back together, one word at a time, and returned to earth for a longer stay.