Sunday Night

Sunday nights are quiet.

In my neighborhood, the streets are silent. A random dog barks and the doves coo. The hum of my computer is loud. I look at what needs to be done, what waits to be cleaned, what needs to be prepared and feel the piles inching ever higher. The ticking of the clock in the bathroom is the downbeat to the ticking clock in the kitchen. The noise and hustle of the weekend, the chaos of Saturday, the voices filling my house are gone.

Echoes remain.

Maybe it's the date lurking in the shadows, sending twinges of remembered pain into my heart whenever I catch it out of the corner of my eye. No matter how I try to avoid it, it creeps in. The time ticks by.

On this Sunday, I met a milestone. The first of many this month.

Last year, I lay in bed on Easter morning staring blindly at the golden walls of my bedroom. Newly my bedroom. The kids brought their loot to me and I ooh'd and aww'd over their treasure. Treasure I'd mechanically placed in fabric lined baskets the night before. My mind was numb. My heart was numb. My body was numb.

The day before, I'd sat with Sarah and Tara while the kids played and ran across the grass. The sunlight shone off Elizabeth's hair as she stumbled after Joseph. From inside, I could hear the sound of a sports announcer. I balanced a glass of ice water on my leg, the condensation dripping onto my white skirt, making dark spots.

Tara was pregnant. Her shower was a few weeks away. She looked at me with her brow furrowed. Sarah kept touching my shoulder. They didn't know anything except Chad wasn't there and he wasn't going to be.

Their husbands came to the doorway, gathering my children along with their own, and brought them inside for movies and snacks.

I sat in that chair, feeling the warmth of the sun on my head. My eyes burned from hours of crying. My face felt tight, the skin stretched. I shared my story with these two women. I felt their shock, heard their gasps. I watched them try to process my words, to figure out how to be there for me.

They were tentative. What do you need?

I explained the situation and the plan with cool detachment. I was in control. I was going to be fine.

Unbelievably, they made me laugh. The glow stayed with me until I got home and started to put together Easter baskets. Tears dripped from my face while I listened to Chad make arrangements for us to do brunch at his parents' house.

Last year, I spent Easter in a state of shock.

This year, it's a milestone. It's the first time I can say, "This holiday last year, Chad and I had separated."

The kids and I spent Friday evening dying eggs with Tara and Sarah and Jen. Only this time, it's Sarah who's due in a few short weeks; it's Sarah's shower being planned. The year has brought changes, most for good.

And still, Sarah touches my shoulder. Tara furrows her brow. Jen pours the wine. And I can see the question. What do you need?

They listen, they advise, and they make me laugh.

And when they're gone, the echoes of that laughter, mixed with the shouts of children, remain.

Still...

Sunday nights are quiet.