With the last of my children resettled in a distant state, I have returned home and now face the lame inconsistencies of my humanity confronting me like
greedy urchins in this childless domain.
Am I still "domestic?" Am I allowed to retain the inferred deep, reverential honor of
"motherhood" although retired from the daily child-rearing duties of the firm?
Or must I pass my days sedately clutching the gold watch of service as an honorary member
of my now disbanded family enterprise?
These were the thoughts that frantically raced to claim my attention last night as I stood in the doorway
of my youngest child's now empty bedroom and the same ones that greeted
me again this morning in this disturbingly silent house.
I did cry in that doorway last night and as I moved through her hollowed-out room, those gentle, ambient
tears rooted down to my soul until they became low, mournful sobs bordering on mordant
wailing. Yet within the keening there also existed a strong dose of relief,
which shook my grief by the shoulders until I
recognized my anchor of hope as it stood grinning
in the corner of newness,
beckoning me with its promise
of anything
and
whatever.
I can do this.
