A morning alone

A quiet house.

It's so weird when both The Man and The Kid are gone. Time goes so slow... Usually my mornings run, wop and wop!, from packing his bag to preparing his lunch to dropping The Kid off at his nanny to, hola!, it's 9 o'clock already and I'm at work - whereas now, I've vacuumed and tidied and had a cup of tea and changed the bedsheets and looked at the clock, only to find that it's... still not 8 o'clock yet.

It's weird, focusing almost entirely on what I'm doing. Usually I'm always keeping an eye out and ears popped for what The Kid is up to, even when I'm tidying or cooking or writing on the computer, whereas today... I went around the house, vacuuming, humming a tune, pushing The Dog out of the way (for the love of life, what is it with you and the vacuum cleaner, huh!?) and found myself paying almost full attention to the task at hand.

It reminded me of... what is used to be like. That summer in Otepää, in that old house where everything smelled of the years gone by and I sauntered down to the beach for a swim, bought bread, cheese, butter and milk at a corner shop, in the evenings worked quietly on an upholstering fabric...

How time was slow and I was aware of what was happening, both inside of me and weather-wise. I remember what grass used to smell like, what old apple trees used to smell like, because I had time to stop and smell!

And now I am sitting here at this table, it is raining outside, the window is open... and I can smell the grass, the way pine trees waft that bitter tang of sap around us and the way wood dries is the shed.

It's quite... memorable, really. So... quiet.

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