The Sound of Silence

I am often asked why I started this blog.  That’s not true.  I’m never asked why I started this blog.  But since you asked, the reason I started this blog was to keep myself busy when I don’t have my kids.  My house was always full of noise and commotion and activity and life.  It’s still that way when the kids are there, but when they’re away, the house is silent.  Lonely. 

Coming home after work to a dark, lifeless house isn’t something I enjoy.  I turn on the lights.  I see reminders of my kids…pictures they’ve drawn, messes they’ve made, toys left out.

Photographs of my children are scattered on my desk.  Some are recent.  Some are older.  I last saw my boys only yesterday, but I miss them.  I stand at the sink, doing dishes, and the house is silent.  It is physically painful to be separated from my sons.  But it’s more than that. It feels like a piece of my soul has been amputated.

I finish the dishes and try not to think.  Thinking doesn’t help.  I go into the living room.  It’s a disaster.  Charlie likes to pull the cushions off the couches.  It’s a serious endeavor for him, like it’s his job.  As soon as I replace the cushions and leave the room, he’s removing them again.  And now, in the half-lit, silent house, I look at the cushions on the floor.  Charlie had them stacked for some reason.  I feel a lump in my throat.  I put the cushions back on the couches.

Laundry.  I have to do the laundry.  It’s a good thing the boys aren’t here, because I have so much cleaning to do.  This thought tastes bitter.  It makes me stop in my tracks.  It is a lie.   It is never a good thing when the boys aren’t here. 

I try to breathe. 

I try not to hyperventilate.  

I miss my boys. 

I go into the laundry room and start the laundry.  I go to the toy room.  It’s a disaster.  I find socks on the floor and take them to the laundry room.  I return to the toy room.  Toys are scattered everywhere.  I can’t clean it.  Not tonight.  I turn off the light and leave the room.

My phone rings.  I look at the incoming number.  It’s my ex’s number.  I answer it and hear Jackson’s voice.  He’s excitedly telling me about what he did today.  I hear his mom in the background telling him to tell me where they went and what they did next.  Ethan gets on the phone.  “Love you, Dad.  Poop.”  He’s a man of few words.  Charlie talks.  I hear his mom tell him to say “Love you.  Miss you.”  Hearing my sons’ voices brings tears to my eyes, but it is a gift, and I am grateful for it.   


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