Waterbury

Summer 2017

 

Make of this what you will, but I’m in my room.

I’m alone. I’m waiting for a thunderstorm.

I wait for the reassuring rumble of thunder, sip tea,

and imagine my fourteen-year-old son in Vermont asleep in a triangle of sunlight.

His half-sister and -brother napping beside him.

Gavin’s red hair mixed up with and nearly indistinguishable from Tegan’s red hair.

Bear’s hair the only variance—a sun-faded muddy brown, but it suits him.

In the background, there might be music, mixed with the contented snoring of children,

a blend of melodious chords, the smell of coffee, a round table covered with crayon shavings,

birds chittering outside many an open window, the slow padding of bare feet over uncarpeted floor.

The hours immense before my sleeping son in Vermont—

uncollected yet and still waiting—as I am waiting.

Here, the rain has finally arrived. I’m in my room.

I’m alone. I’m waiting for a thunderstorm.

 

 

 

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