In the absence of a babbling brook, or pounding surf –
Shower water will do.
There are no longer children climbing on my bed
Pressing their warm cheeks to mine
Smelling of crusty noses and baby’s breath
Scents that make a mother’s heart turn over with unspeakable love
There are no lunches to be made or school buses to catch
Just the comforting sound of my husband in the shower
And eyes that open slowly
To the silence of trees outside my window
Swaying undulantly in the spring breeze
As if they were beds of kelp in deep sea water.
I wish the sky behind them was blue instead of grey
I thank God for hot cups of tea on grey mornings.
And remember that when the sky is blue and the morning is bright,
I will thank God for yogurt and fruit.
My husband kisses me good bye and I am left to
The cooing of wood doves and the hum of the refrigerator.
Bed covers for company.
No baby sucking at my old, empty breast
No one needing breakfast but me.
I slip on my sweats and pad five steps to my little kitchen.
Fill the pan with water and set it on the stove, clink,
Put bread into the toaster, click,
Open my book and write about slow empty mornings,
Not a bad thing, my favorite kind, really,
The only sound is the hum of my pen moving across the page.
Finally, I am a writer, a chronicler of the morning.
Unhurried. Unworried.
But still, I listen for the baby’s cry down the hall.