It’s finally quiet.  The house, the kids, the street.  All quiet.  The washer has stopped running for the first time all day.  We ate on paper plates all day so I don’t have to load the dishwasher.  It’s quiet.

Except all the noise in my head.  And the snarlfing from my nose due to the cold that my littlest little was kind enough to gift me.  Time to crack out the saline wash again. 

The noise in my head keeps me up at night.  I’m probably run down because it’s so noisy in there and I can’t sleep.  I hear over and over the machines beeping, the hum of that last seizure, I hear my voice on the phone telling our friends and my family about his final minutes and I also hear myself telling everyone that he is in a much better place when I’m pretty sure that’s a lie because what could be better than being with your wife and babies.  I hear the sweet sounds of the quartet that played “I can only imagine” and “I’ll fly away”.  I remember crying through both songs.  I remember almost all the words of the minister, the only speaker that day other than his fraternity brothers reading from the Bible.  I wish I had said something.  I with that everyone present could know just how much he meant to me.

I talk alot about how hard it is to parent alone.  I talk about flying alone.  Doing chores that weren’t mine.  Grilling.  (And I haven’t even touched on the fact that I haven’t had a back rub, let alone a good lay, since July.)  Do you know what I miss the most?

The noise.  The real noise.  The conversation.  The snoring.  The keys, the engine, the phone calls.  The playful banter.  The ass grabbing.  Discipline doled out by someone other than me.  Songs sung at bedtime and stories read.  I miss, “Quiet!  Mommy’s taking a nap.” 

The real noise.

I wish this never happened.  I want my old life back.


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