I spent the first five minutes of it sitting on the end of a queen-sized bed, staring into the trifold mirror on the back of the dresser, looking at the face of a stranger.
I am seized by early-morning silence, by the fog and mist that glowed golden and red and swirled around my view at eighty miles an hour down the highway at five-thirty AM. I am wiped clean, empty of emotion, and my cup is filling slowly with loneliness. I stayed the night. I said over and over again, last night, as the hour at which I could have returned here to sleep approached and passed, that I should have come back here. The truth, O Best Beloved, was that I was afraid to come back for just this reason: there was silence around me, as I turned off my book-on-tape and got out of my car and entered my quiet apartment. I had time to think.
I spent most of Saturday and Sunday, almost all of Saturday and Sunday, playing World of Warcraft and I wish I had done something else, but it was good to have time to not-think. I will spend today catching up on yesterday's affaires for my patients, admitting two more (if I get an admission), and trying to keep busy.
Busybusybusy. Because, you see, it is the silence and the aloneness and the emptiness that swallows me whole. And I am alone, here, so terribly alone that at this moment in the post-dawn moments I am contemplating driving back to Fort Wayne in the evening, just to find my Angel and have him hold me.
These days are long, O Best Beloved. So very very long. And we are beginning to discuss in all seriousness how the next three years will proceed.
I have come to realize that the most important thing for me is the ability to go home at night.