Solitude
It’s been a while since I had the house completely to myself.
Summer holidays had the teenager slouching around all day, or his gang hanging out at home. Then his older sibling arrived, bringing with him his own personal whirlwind of energy. There were young people in and out the door, much eating (and late night drinking) and merriment.
Their grandfather arrived to visit for a few weeks. Friends dropped in for tea or brunch. My dad likes company. Even when it was just us in the house, he would ramble on, reminiscing about distant times, while I sat with my stitching, listening, not contributing much. The first evening he got here, he fell asleep on the rocking chair. When I went to wake him up and send him off to bed, my better half stopped me. Let him be, he said quietly, he’s been missing the company. So we sat, television for the spouse, cross stitch in my lap while Dad slept on in the rocking chair his wife had favoured.
A week after he arrived, the older boy left to go back to university. All of us moped around for a day or two, the energy always drops when this dynamo of ours leaves. Then it was back to business, college applications and birthdays, school and work. Still, there was someone waiting at home when I got back from work. Dad and I would eat lunch together and then he’d head off for a nap. At his age, he doesn’t sleep very long. The smell of coffee would wake him up. He’d keep me company while I cooked dinner or sat with my embroidery.
He discovered Netflix and YouTube this time. Sometimes he’d sit watching old movies in the living room, and with my bedroom door open, I would hear the crackly old soundtracks. Once the movie was done, he’d come in, with new suggestions for tomorrow’s viewing pleasure. Or to rhapsodise over the beautiful women and wonderful music.
His walk is a shuffle now. I wonder when my sprightly, spiffy dad became this old man, carefully negotiating his way from bedroom to kitchen to living room. He still cleans up pretty good, and can appear in a cloud of aftershave because his sense of smell isn’t the same anymore. That’s unimportant. What matters is that he’s living his life on his own terms and to the best of his abilities. He’s travelling on his own, visiting family and friends, trying hard not to miss my mum too much, still loves his music. (I am so thankful his hearing is still sharp because his music is everything to him these days).
Dad left this afternoon, heading off to our hometown to visit his family and childhood friends. I came home from the airport to find the teenager heading out again. As the door slammed behind him, the silence tiptoed back into my house after many weeks. We welcomed it, my house and I: an old, shy friend who brings peace and calm. The smell of coffee didn’t bring an eager face popping out of the guest bedroom. Nor did anyone keep my my silent stitching company with stories of the good old times. No one came banging out of the kids’ bedroom, demanding snacks or attention. I sat on.
After a couple of sunny days, the clouds are back and the air is heavy with moisture. The house is still and quiet. The parrots and sparrows have been and gone as a wet dusk falls. A bunch of cheerful yellow and white flowers in the corner liven up a gloomy evening. I take a deep breath and relax. I have missed this – the silence, the solitude. It’s a choice I make, to be alone with my thoughts. I am grateful that it is, after all, by choice.
I can see how oppressive it could become, without the hope of its temporary state. I think of friends, returning to empty homes, reluctantly. For whom family is only a twice weekly blessing, the echoes of that laughter filling the corners of their minds all the other interminable days. I ache to think of their forced solitude, unremitting, unwanted. Of the defences they throw up around themselves, the people they surround themselves with, just so that dinner is not a lonely affair and the return home can be delayed a couple more hours.
And I sit on, my mind reaching out to my far away friends and then returning to matters closer to home.
Because soon the doorbell will ring, the teenager will come storming in, hungry and hyper. He will submit to my quick hug before shrugging away, the music will come on. The phone will ring, my dad reporting the latest news from home. The key will turn, my husband will let himself in, quietly. I will put my stitching down, we will smile at each other and my solitude will retreat, making way for family and laughter.