I wrote this a few years ago when my grandson was just five. He is 12 now, but the sentiment is still there. If you have grandchildren, you'll understand.
The door creaks open and I look to the sidewalk for the car I pray will soon approach. A mist of rain covers the neighborhood and although it is summer, I am chilled to the bone. I wait for the sunshine to arrive but soon realize that it will not come for two more weeks. It leaves me shuddering, as I roam my house, lost and lonely while I wait for the light to return.
I do this every day. Walk to the door. Drive the neighborhood. Await the phone call.
The nights are long. I listen for his shallow breathing and move from the bed at warp speed thinking I have heard his cough. I pile the covers near my bed in anticipation of his being cold.
I fill the refrigerator with strawberries and melon, his favorite foods. I line up the books he reads next to my leather chair and hold his freshly laundered clothes to my face, breathing in his gentle scent.
Who knew when my 5-year-old grandson left for vacation the nights would be so silent?
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