A pot of speckled cranberry beans simmering on the wood stove, I push another log in, an attempt to coax up the digits indoors. Meanwhile our oldest are busy chatting and bundling in layers, piling on hats and scarves and thick gloves to head outdoors to play. Babies and toddlers down for their nap, the door closes with a thud as the three push out into the snow. Then...silence. The house sighs and quiets.
It is just me and the quiet here now. Quiet has it's own voice and now it begins a throaty, solemn melody, humming along with the blower fan for the wood stove and harmonizing with the whistle of the tea kettle. A cup of energizing black tea should be just the thing.
I slip my pink granny slippers on and shuffle towards the stove.
Phone rings and I listen to Sean tell me how many hours till he's home.
Home. It is more home than ever when he returns.
I soak in the quiet, knowing it is brief and like a breath will soon have passed through.
A rustling from the cradle upstairs, a small little grunt, a last quick slurp of my tea before setting the cup in the sink.
Quiet waves goodbye and floats away with the chimney smoke.
I am glad to see her off.