When you are away

solitude can be freeing...and lonely

Photo by Per Lööv on Unsplash

I must confess.

When you are away, my world seems to shift a bit on its axis. I inhabit the same spaces and places, but somehow they are different. Sounds and colors seem muted and time is more like a slurry than a slipstream. The bits and pieces of our life that are uniquely you, the abundance of perfectly placed, thoughtfully matched, throw pillows, the laundry organizing, the mail sorting, begin to unravel after a few days. Throw pillows gradually become arranged in a random pile somewhere near their original location, the laundry semi-sorted into simply white and non-white, the mail loosely arranged into major categories; bills, overt propaganda/trash and correspondence that needs a second look because it may be of transient interest to one of us.

The dogs seem similarly confused and out of sorts. One refuses to eat his food when I place his bowl in front of him for the first couple of feedings. You know which one. He cocks his head sideways and looks at me as if his food is only good if it comes from you. Hunger, I suppose, eventually convinces him otherwise, but it takes a minute. The others eat just fine, but at night, when it’s time to settle down for the evening, they seem restless, as if they can’t get settled. The social structure is amiss. There is one lap missing. They seem perplexed.

My routines begin to adapt to your absence. There is an autonomy and lack of accountability that is simultaneously freeing and melancholic. Is it possible to be lonely and mischievous? No matter. I suppress a twinge of guilt. Is this a lightness I sense? No negotiation, no discussion over what to watch, or eat, when to sleep, or read, what hobby to pursue, or whether to just be idle. Free to be selfish. I smoke my pipe on the porch and wallow in the sensation.

Lack of accountability breeds a bit of rebelliousness. The drying rack for laundry stays folded in the corner for the entire duration of your absence. All my clothes go in the dryer, on low mind you. I may be cavalier, but I’m not ignorant. I wash the sauce pans in the dishwasher, the fancy ones you bought a few years ago that you said never put in the dishwasher. It seems really unlikely to me that they could be designed to withstand being directly on an open flame and somehow vulnerable to damage in the dishwasher. Confident in my analysis and unfettered, I brazenly arrange them amid the plates and bowls. With an air of arrogance, I press the pots/pans setting and close the door.

Having come clean on this now, I’m fully aware that any future malfunction or premature wear that besets our cookware will immediately be attributed to the three times they were washed in the dishwasher. And, if my t-shirts happen to be tight across my shoulders or only reach to just below my waist band, my drying indiscretion will be immediately called into question. My pulse quickens at the thought of being detected. I rehearse defending my actions, then quickly suppress the thought.

A couple of days pass. The parts of my inner world that depend most on you begin to become a little disheveled, as if the metaphorical edges begin to unravel. My internal monologue begins to change in tone. I think it is a coping mechanism. I’m not entirely certain.

Around day five, rebelliousness borne of independence begins to morph into loneliness. The dogs seem more settled in their new routine dependent on only one human, totally centered on my every move. But, the opportunity to function independently, without negotiation, without compromise, has lost its luster. I function just fine. Work is an effective distraction, but the never ending list of tasks around our home that you mysteriously complete without detection and without fanfare begin to feel overwhelming. The salt shaker is empty. The plants on the porch are wilting. We are running low on dog food. The hamper is full. The fridge is empty. Excitement about preparing my meals with music and wine has dwindled into a weary desire for cold cereal and take out. The quiet at night that was so peaceful has become suffocating. I anxiously await your return.

I can’t remember what time your flight lands, but I’m certain it is today. I check the email you sent with your itinerary. There is much to do. Throw pillows to replace. Laundry to fold and put away. Countertops to clean. I must remember to get the pots and pans out of the dishwasher. Punch list complete, I confirm your arrival time. Five hours away. Not much longer. I sense some anxious anticipation in my chest. It feels like I’m smiling.

Perhaps I will sit on the front porch, and wait…