It's a blustery night and the wind is unsteady as it can sometimes be in these last, volatile days of winter. My garage door squeaks where the metal of the hinges rub together where they meet in the middle. Strangely enough, it's a soothing sound to me on nights like this. The house is still warm from the fresh memories of my boys and I horseplaying around in the front room. The fire crackles quietly behind the glowing glass of the woodstove door and the fridge is humming in the kitchen, still trying to recuperate from the seemingly endless series of opens and closes that happen when three boys--two still growing--invade it's privacy.
Sunday nights used to be the hardest for me to bear; the sudden hush after a two-day barrage of noise and frenetic energy. But now the quiet, while not quite longed for, is the accompaniment music to my reflective thoughts.
I am blessed to have the knowledge of quiet and the love of two amazing boys.