Mondays come and bring with them an empty house. A blanket of quiet.
I eat my breakfast. I notice the sound of knife and fork on plate, the hum of the refrigerator, my dog snoring, a crow outside.
I am tempted to turn the television on to add a layer of human presence into the space.
I decide not to. I stay with the quiet.
I probably will not speak out loud to another person until the middle school bus pulls up.
That is not a very long time, but quiet stirs my impatient nature, rubs up against the raw skin of my insecurity. I get agitated at the space.
Why?
I sip my coffee and consider the gift of space to feel. To sense. To experience. The discomfort of being with myself. A great gift.
I go back to unwrapping it.
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