By Myself

I have had the house to myself since Wednesday. Through the dining room window, I watched Brian and the dogs pull out of the driveway for their trek across the state. After the gritty sound of them driving off faded, I stood in the quiet dining room. The refrigerator wasn’t even humming. The air conditioner was taking a break. Not a single droning from the walls. After a moment of quiet, I said to myself This is what it would be like if they suddenly died. Then I wondered what it was that I said last to Brian. Did I even hug the dogs? After remembering that I had said the normal things to him before he left and definitely hugged the dogs, I considered texting him one final parting message, just in case. But then I decided not to be a weirdo and enjoyed the rest of the evening on the patio, watching bats score the sky in dips and turns. Brian and the dogs made it across the state safely.

I love being by myself. Literally by myself. I sense a closeness to myself; my shadow standing up, dusting off its darkness, and meeting me elbow-to-elbow.

I don’t do anything different compared to what I do when I’m not by myself. I still throw the loppers in the back of the car and drive to the wetlands where I ceremoniously chop through hundreds of Japanese Knotweed shoots. I still peer past the shoots, which seem never-ending, into a green that only exists in shadows. I still stand there in the sun, decimated knotweed at my boots, and wonder why no bugs are crawling on me after my endeavor. I wonder why I even wore gloves.

I still uncover part of my patio furniture and sit there enthralled with 9 pm’s gloaming and the arrival of bats. When the Lightning Bugs start to talk, I concentrate on their language but all I see is “here”…”there”…”here” across the nightscape.

My body, regardless of being by myself, still thinks it's time to sleep when it's at rest.