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August 5, 2003 It's quiet. Too quiet. It's a bit after six, and I have been awaiting Marie's grooming finale since 4:30. She was (gasp!) still asleep when I got home from work, and needed to prepare herself for the hot fashion occasion that is school supplies shopping. I just hollered up to her to put a little boogie in it, and she responded with an, "Oh! I'll be right down." The lures of the internet distracted her. Or, you know, something shiny (I raspberry you, Marie! ~grin~). She's apparently been ready for a half an hour. Later... Calvin is gone for the rest of the week, and as is the usual case when he's away, the house is as silent as a tomb. I'm playing my "mellow" playlist at top volume on the computer to ward the silence away and get the writerly juices flowing. It's almost like I can write better when I can't hear myself think. I always feel vaguely anxious when it's like this. Not that I'm afraid to be by myself (which I'm not, because Marie's upstairs), and I even enjoy it on occasion. I think a lot - a LOT - and when there's folks around wanting attention (of the tickling, teasing, making me shriek type), they view my quiet as distance. Even though I'm immanently approachable, even when I'm thinking. I can bookmark and go back later - I'm fortunate in that ability. But anyway. Vague anxious feeling. I don't know what it is. Missing him, surely, but we talk so often on the phone that it's almost hard to miss him. I miss his physical presence, his scent (I hug his pillow at night... mmm... Aqua du Gio...). His footrubs, especially. Just knowing he's in the next room, and I can go get a hug whenever I want. You go ahead and gag. I'll wait. No, no, take your time. Maybe it's because I almost feel like I'm playing grown-up. I usually feed the dogs and cat, but now I'm the only one to feed the dogs and cat (your fate is in my hands, my pretties). I always get up on time, but now I have to make sure I hear the alarm. Calvin usually puts out the garbage, so now I have to remember to. Same with making sure the hot tub isn't growing bacteria. I usually get the coffee ready - but I've been known to skip it altogether when Calvin isn't here. Making sure Marie is fed and gets to bed at a reasonable hour is something usually shared by us both. All stuff that I share the responsibility for when Calvin is home. But now it's mine. And even though there are days and weeks when I feel like I do all of this stuff myself anyway (I said *feels* like, Calvin), when he's gone it feels like it's more, somehow. Like I have to think about the actuality of it, rather than just going about things automatically. Marie and I spent $75 between us on office supplies. She got the standard notebooks/binders/pens/jelly pens/highlighters/mechanical pencils/loose leaf paper that make up her yearly supply list. For myself, I just couldn't resist these notebooks that had plastic document holders built into them - very useful for work, where I usually stuff loose papers willy-nilly inside the cheap composition books they stock in the supply cabinet. And fine-point blue ink pens that will flow instead of sputter across the pages (dissing, again, the contents of the supply cabinet). Armed with these tools, I shall be an army of one against the haphazard and chaotic projects that have dropped in my lap since my return. "Dropped" is too delicate of a term. Thudded? Collapsed? Avalanched? Something like that. After we dual-handedly denuded Office Max, we went to Chili's for dinner. And had another one of those fun, all over the place conversations we traditionally have when we're out together. I have to say that the relationship I have with Marie is right up there with Calvin in importance and pure enjoyment in my life - though of a different nature, of course. There are no words. I am full of warm-fuzziness that only a step-mom who has discovered her best friend in her step-daughter can have. I just got off the phone with Calvin, and expressed this very thing with him. How lucky I am, to be married to one best friend, and step mom to another. And now Simon and Garfunkel is playing, and it's suiting my mood perfectly. And suddenly, I have less desire to write than to lay on my back on the bed, stare up at the ceiling fan, and sing. What a dream I had, dressed in organdy. Clothed in crinoline of smokey burgundy, softer than the rain. I wandered empty streets and past the shop displays. I heard cathedral bells tripping down the alleyways, as I walked on. And when you ran to me, your cheeks flushed with the night; we walked on frosted fields of juniper and lamplight. I held your hand. And when I awoke and felt you warm and near, I kissed your honey hair with my grateful tears. Oh I love you, girl. Oh I love you.

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©Laura Charon 2000 - 2003.