In the Quiet

At the end of the evening, the house is suddenly quiet. Children in bed. The table clear of everything except the Bonne Maman jar of dahlias. I feel nourished...by the meal, but also by the company and conversation. I roasted a chicken and Stephanie brought wine. M entertained the 3 year olds with video games, while we watched Marko crawl around the dining room in search of scraps of paper. I have Devendra Banhart playing as I wash the dishes. I'm not even really enjoying this music, but I can't bring myself to turn it off because it reminds me of another dinner party at Lance and Steve's house. There were beets (before beets were trendy) and candles. It's almost a decade old, this memory, but I can remember the feel of a Phoenix evening in November. It's perfect.

I don't have a plan for retirement, or even for my career in five years. My kitchen has peeling vinyl flooring and a refrigerator parked in front of the boarded up door. The bathroom? We're just waiting for the 90 year old plumbing to give up. We'll get to all that, someday. Or not. Because in the meantime, I choose 6am waffles and Friday happy hour with friends. (Is this an apology? Or a declaration? Just know that it is never a bad time for you to stop by for a cup of coffee.)

Today was a mess. I lost my keys, and Marko woke us all up at 5:30 and the car was out of gas and we had no milk. The laundry was stacked up so high in the chute that you could see it from the kitchen. We were all grumpy from lack of sleep, and yelled at each other. M and I made undeliverable threats and other parenting faux-pas all morning. My clothes have baby spit up on them and I did not bother to change.

In the quiet at the end of the evening I can hardly remember that. I mostly think about the chicken and the baby shower tomorrow and how fun it was to talk to Stephanie.

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