Phil took the baby to his mom's house today. He drove down with his brother, and our nephew, Noah. I've been alone in the house all day. I straightened up our family files, and now they're all neat and spare and organized. There is a gigantic box of paper ready to throw away. OK, Phil, I love you, but why would you save an Office Depot receipt from 1996?
I could be doing a lot of other things right now. The kitchen floor is disgracefully dirty, dinnertime is looming, there's always editing or writing I should be doing. But it's so quiet. It's dim in our room, and the noises of cars drifts in to me as I lie here mounded in blankets on Phil's side of the bed. My ceiling is perfectly white. I stop between every sentence and admire it. There is no one prodding me and demanding that I get up, there is no one discordantly playing a harmonica right next to my head, I am not being forced to pour milk or skin apple slices. I believe I will just continue to lie here, staring at the calm white ceiling. It is really quite lovely. To hell with the floor. And there is a really quite good pizza shop right downstairs from here. Pizza! Surely fate would not place this pizza shop right in our building if we were not meant to eat from it several times weekly.
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