such a fuss about such a story

I sit outside and listen to a large party happening across the way. Across the field. I can hear music and people laughing. And i think if i stretch my ear just right i can hear barefooted children running about and reveling in the intoxication of adult parties and being out in the dark of night.

At first the sounds of summer at the lake make me smile. Then as i sit and sip my wine and find myself all alone and i imagine those kids and those families it all rushes in. It rushes as it wants to do.

The things i have lost, the things i have never had, the things i may never do.

For the most part it easy to be strong. It's a walking with blinders. A focus on the road ahead, not the road left behind. A parent, a home, a job. Perhaps some idle thoughts on love and careers and lost book deals and missed opportunity.

But there are these nights where i miss my children so much. It's like a gaping hole in my abdomen. Those parts of me that grew babies and loved them and gave them everything is gone. Those pieces of me go with them when they sleep in other places. Sometimes these nights are unbearable and i wander and i turn up the sad songs. I want to talk to someone but there is nobody there.

I always arrive exactly on the dot of the time i said i would when it is time to pick them up. And we come home and the house fills with their endless chatter. And the ground echoes as their grubby summer feet run in and out of rooms and grass and gardens. And once again i feel whole and strong.