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.
