The boy just got home, and he sleeps. It is early in the morning, so the sound of my neighbor Michael sweeping his patio comes across the walkway, but not much else. The house hums in the tune of an ancient clunker refrigerator, interspersed by occasional crunches of bunny nibbling on grass. Later I hear the soft clicking of her teeth, a sign of utter contentment.
Traffic, like a gushing river infused by snow, plays out in the background. I have to concentrate to hear it though. Birds tweet here and there, but mostly they fuss over other agendas. I don't hear the soothing tides of ocean rush onto the beach and retreat with piles of sand on their toes, not from here, a bit too far and removed. But I hear the leaves whisper, and wind chimes clink. There are no ruckus in this hour except those going on in my head, the battle against stillness, the inability to rest, mingled with whirlpools of doubts.
No matter the time of his return, he sleeps for hours or days before life can begin again. I've outgrown my angst, pleads and tacit maneuvers to speed up the process. It's small wonders I don't pull on my cucumber seedlings to promote their growth, seeing as how I manage life.
Perhaps blessings seldom live far away, but I want to look beyond the oceans that I can't hear or see, run after those elusive challenges, wander into the unknown horizon. Weariness always brings me back, from bubbles of dreams bursting and imaginary ghosts fading, so I can finally see the fruit of contentment sitting at my doorsteps waiting.
I know now as ever, that tomorrow I will forget and allow the call of the chase to stir me all over again. But I linger in a moment of now, teeth clicking.