Sunday nights are interestingly quiet now. Jake is working. Oh I know he's only three blocks away, seconds by cellphone, and I'm perfectly safe. What's hard is the homesickness, the unfamiliarity that creeps back in around the edges.
It's 8 pm, the kids are in bed, the cat is asleep, the dishes are put away, laundry is in the dryer and I even managed to finally file my nails because they were ragged. I have new printer ink. I made cinnamon rolls again and chucked my nine-year-old breadmaker out because it wouldn't heat up enough to make the bread rise anymore. I hemmed some of Henry's pants. I fixed a torn sleeve on Jake's workshirt. I painted a chip on the bathroom baseboard. I printed a bunch of pictures out for Cole's parents to have. I went through his tools in the workshop and organized them. He never put anything away. I used to ask him why he never hung the hammer up again and he said if I fucked up he wanted it handy to bash my head in.
I hung it up. Probably should have thrown it away out of spite. But instead I came upstairs and locked the door and took my pills and ate an apple. That is progress.
