This first day on my own has a different texture than when others are here. Arbitrary markers are removed. I still follow the tides of light and darkness as always. And I seem to eat regular meals, though there is no one to ask: “Are you hungry?,” “Do you want lunch now?” I just realize I am hungry and eat. When I am tired I rest. But there is more to the quality of being alone than schedule. I hear the clock tick off minutes and am reminded of my grandmother’s house where there wasn’t always something to say and never any music or voices in the background. I don't remember this as unpleasant. It was a rarified place, as it is here, where time moved differently. Very little was expected of me. We might pick raspberries, or play with her button collection, or make toast in her antique toaster. Her house contained a profound sense of everything being ok…of my being ok. There was nothing to negotiate outside or the inside.