Carolyn J.
Rose
Last weekend,
during a wind-lashed downpour, I stared out the window at the soggy chaise on
our deck. Just a few weeks ago, when the nights were warm and the air was soft
and fragrant, I lounged on that chaise with a book in my hand, waiting for the
tiny solar lights in our garden to beam on and the bats to emerge and flutter
above me. Now the chair hunkers in the gray rain alone.
Yesterday I
hunted through drawers and cabinets in search of a thermal sock, a Christmas
gift from Mike and mate to one in the corner of a drawer. The search was in
vain. The sock in the corner remains alone.
This morning a
single goose flew over. Had it, like the sock, lost its mate? Mourning the
loss, had it fallen behind the others in the chevron headed south? Would it
ever catch up?
Unlike the
last cookie on a plate or the last shot in a bottle, these are lonely things. I
know that cookie will be eaten—probably by me—and that shot will be poured.
I don’t know if
that goose will find its way. I don’t know if I’ll find the missing sock. I
don’t know whether I’ll be here to lounge on that chair when summer returns
even though it will wait for me through the dank days of winter.
What says
“loneliness” to you?
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