I am alone and hungry.

I eat the leftover puff pancake cold and drink the temperate coffee.

I want to vacuum the whole house, remove the dust and debris that’s gathered in the months since we vacuumed. All of summer swept up into the vacuum bag, the record of time passing to be tossed in the garbage bin.

Instead work waits for me to start in on it, writing about meditation when my mindful brain wants to clear the clutter of our lives until we are ghosts in our home.

My eldest left for camp this morning without a hug goodbye, no wave from the car window, not one bit of yearning to stay home. I applaud her and feel the remnants of a punch to my gut all at the same time. I’m so relieved that she has finally left for the place she is supposed to be. I’m glad for my hours alone to get back to the articles that all should have been written last week. But the pull to vacuum until I only hear that loud noise that covers out the rest of the world is strong.

I’m hungry. I pull the bits of puff pancake apart and eat as I type, think about how my coffee is going cold. I understand why hormones and insatiable hunger make middle aged women’s stomachs grow rotund, full of change and sorrow shot through with a line of well-deserved gold.

I am alone and hungry.


3 thoughts on “Hunger

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