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Left Behind

I’ve checked my phone a few times, but ain’t nobody called.  Which is good, I guess.  As it probably means everyone’s alive and well.  Or they’re too kind to call.  Oh…goodness, may it not be that.

Eight hours ago, the radical happened. I left behind the child who has clung like super glue to my leg, my neck, and my hand these last 3 1/2 years and headed to Oregon with my husband.  I left his sister, too.  But she’ll be fine.  And probably only cry when we come back.

But him, my baby.  My third hip, of sorts.  The one who asked me in the van, “do you want to smell my stinky shoe?”  then thrust his boot nearly up my nose.

Well…he’ll probably be fine, too. It’s my sister-in-law I am praying for now.  The one who said, “don’t worry about a thing.  It’ll all be fine.”  Her.  Yes…I’m praying for her. 

And I’m wondering what to do with myself. 

I’ve got three magazines with me, all still in their plastic.  And a library book.  But I don’t know if I can do it.  Just sit here and read ’em, that is. I think I’d either zonk out or guiltily grab a rag from the maid’s closet and hover over some innocent gentleman with coffee, just daring him to spill. 

But I think that’s it.  I think I’m waiting for something.  Like for my son to wake up from his nap and for my daughter to wander in and ask me to teach her a game.  “Something I don’t already know how to play,” she’d say.  And I’m listening for his heels on the hardwoods as he sniffles that he was petting the cat first.  And for her to pee with the bathroom door open.  And for him to drag his chair across the dining room, climb up the pantry from it and ask for cookies.  And then ice cream. 

Only I miss these things.  And I don’t. 

I’m still wearing the same clothes I put on this morning.  No stains, no spills, no snot that isn’t mine.  And my hair is still hanging in the same direction it started.

Uh…I think I’ll do what I haven’t done in 3 1/2 years. 

Blessed sleep…I’m yours. 

Over and out.

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