“Bye Mom, I love you!”
I spit out toothpaste and shouted toward the stairs, “I love you, too, Honey,” but I was too late, he was out the door. I didn’t stop to consider that he knew I loved him and that’s why he didn’t wait for my response; I didn’t stop to think about how many times I’ve heard and said those words to a kid walking out the door; I didn’t stop for any deep thought at all, but I did stop. Something was different.
It was so quiet.
I put my toothbrush away and walked downstairs.
The TV was off.
The microwave was off.
Of course, it wasn’t completely silent — the refrigerator hummed, the air conditioner whirred, the neighborhood dogs seemed to be having a conversation — but the house was as silent as houses get.
A daytime quiet house feels different than a night time one. At night, I can feel my people there. I don’t know if it’s some sort of maternal echolocation or just a really active imagination but…