The Lonely Hour

I am skinning chicken, cutting it, and seasoning it. The skins fall into the sink and I look out the kitchen window. The light is fading, the sky turning less vibrant. Earlier, as I was feeding the baby in her room with the curtains closed, the bright light burst through and the room and was unusually luminous. The bright burst before the light starts to fade.

As I get ready to peel potatoes, the clean dishes I just washed drying in the strainer beside me, I feel the lonely sadness of darkness washing over me. This is the lonely time of the day, the transition to evening. The kids are watching Curious George, quiet now, after the days noise and excitement has calmed. The library books we collected this afternoon sit on the bench waiting for us to read after dinner. For now, everyone is quiet, and hungry, their fuel tanks almost empty. Soon I will peel the potatoes, put them in the water to boil, but for now I pause to feel the glumness of the lonely hour. I start thinking about my husband coming home. Will he be here for dinner tonight? Or will he be working late, and I will eat alone with the kids again. I hope the baby sleeps for a while so I can at least feed the kids in peace. Only a couple more hours now for the kids to be awake. Soon enough it will be time to bath them, and change them into pajamas. Then rub their backs, sing them a song, and say prayers. Then I will be able to sit down for a while, read a book maybe, after I do the dishes and clean up a little. I will have accepted the night by then, officially dark, it’s less lonely than this gray time, not light, not dark – the lonely hour.