Friends and family are so concerned about me “being all alone in that big house” that when they visit from out of town they stay with me and willingly give up room service, mints on their pillow and they unselfishly abandon all sense of privacy…theirs andmine.
It’s a freakin’ love fest each morning to witness the parade of cheeks with sleep lines and lips with no lipstick stumbling down to the kitchen in their pajamas or whatever odd combo of tee-shirts and sweatpants they decree as comfy sleep wear. They greet me with “This is so great to see you first thing in the morning!” Luckily, their bleary eyes can’t tell that at 7:00 AM I’m not quite ready for my close-up.
But, I’m gracious and accommodating –because my mother was not. She had a strictly enforced ‘kitchen closed’ sign and by the sad hunch of my father’s shoulders I suspect soon after I was born she also shut him out of the bedroom. In those days, a visitor to sleep over? Take my place, pleeese.
For whatever shrinky-dink reason, once Jimmy and I were married our house became the place to stay and despite the missing silverware from time to time, he and I always enjoyed the late night talks and the early morning coffee with strange feet in slippers resting on the coffee table.
I still love company – please don’t write in or call and say, “Whoe…I thought you enjoyed our little visit.” I did. I’m just glad it’s over, that’s all. I’ve gotten used to the quiet and being able to say to myself, I ran out of peanut butter…who cares? That’s so much more relaxing than standing in the supermarket texting “Do you prefer chunkie or smooth?”
And, even after guests go, they leave behind a phone charger or favorite blouse and this bed and breakfast has to mail it back.
One of the short moments in POOR WIDOW ME is:
Living Alone
The ice in the glass had melted, but it was still there on the kitchen table.
Nothing moves if I don’t move it.