Morning Solitude

It's 7:48 a.m., Saturday. The skies are gray and the drain pipe outside my bedroom is clicking once again. Down the hallway a door slams and the pounding of feet going down the stairs echoes through my bedroom door.  Low voices murmur unintelligibly in the room below me. A bubble of laughter rises up.

The door opens and my husband walks in. 

"I think we're going to go," he says. My husband, son, and brother-in-law are participating in the Tough Mudder race today. I guess it won't matter if it's raining; it was going to be muddy anyway.

I offer my usual "be careful, have fun" lecture, with an added "keep an eye on Jared," as my husband gathers up an extra set of clothes to change into after the race. He comes to my side of the bed where I sit cross-legged, computer in front me (a position I know I'll regret when I get up again), leans over, and kisses me goodbye.

"I guess I won't see you until late this afternoon?" I say. It's phrased as a question, but I know the answer.

"I'll call you after the race, after I get back to my phone," he says. Then adds, "I'll call you from the hospital."

I groan. "Don't say that." We laugh, but the humor lies in the possibility of truth. He walks to the door and turns around and smiles before closing the door behind him.

Male voices, low and succinct, pass back and forth downstairs as the men assemble and prepare themselves to leave. The cat my husband let in the room earlier is lying at the end of the bed, purring a melody to the beat of the drainpipe. A few more thumps downstairs, and then the front door bangs closed and the lock clicks into place. My younger son still sleeps peacefully in his room.

The solitude of the morning wraps itself around me in a warm and comforting embrace.