A Place that was Home

It couldn’t be more peaceful. Spring. Kingfishers darting about. That fresh scent of promise dancing on the air. She was so lucky. So privileged. Everyone said so. That view, that family. She really had it all. Miriam sat, tea in hand, settled in her favourite outside chair looking out to the pink sunset sea and wept, silently, at the emptiness of it all. 

It wasn’t the deserted house, or the empty paddocks or the silent roads that filled her with grief. It was the noise inside her head. The echoes of laughter, the remembered rustles and rummages in cupboards, the conversations where cigarettes were smoked and wine drunk. The guitars and drums and pianos that played ghostly songs long into the night.

She didn’t pine for them as children — not for a moment. Her mind held the memory of their childhood gently and with deep gratitude for their silliness, their imagination, their play. No, the gaping hole in her heart was for them as adults and all the challenges, trials and hurt adulthood had brought. She missed talking to them. Missed hearing their ideas. Missed the purpose of listening as they poured out their hearts into her willing hands. 

An early hedgehog snuffled its way across the grass. The dog would have got that once. There would have been chaos as it upended tables, spilled wine and chips and dips and ashtrays and phones, all tumbling, all laughing as the hedgehog was saved and the dog chastised with a bone to keep him busy. Now the hedgehog snuffled on, oblivious to the rain of tears so close to its head. Miriam prickled, irritated by her grief. A large dark hole that started small with the first departure, gradually eating its way into her soul as, one by one, they went away.

It was a black hole that sucked in everything at its edges. Occupations, pastimes, interests, friends and joy. It had sucked in all her joy. Stolen the optimism of spring as it grew silently through the chill of winter. And she couldn’t help them anymore. There was no money to hand out in hard times. There was no advice to be given — certainly none that might contradict partners and wives and close friends. There was guilt too. She missed them more than she missed him — even though he’d been there long before and long after they came and went. 

Logic told her it was the way of things. Children were born to come and go on their way. We are guardians for a short, precious time. We make the start, we stand them up and then we must stand back and let them fly. It had taken them so long to fly, to leave, even to stand. So fragile for men, so sensitive for boys. That’s what people had said even though the reasoning that men should somehow not be sensitive or fragile was beyond her. An unwarranted gender bias. Surely, as humans we are all capable of fragility and sensitivity? It is not something specific to gender. But still, that’s what they said. Maybe she should have done as he said and told them to toughen up. He said it often enough, his brusque impatience snipping away at the cords that bound them. Anyway, they were fine men now, each happy in his own way and, if not happy, seemingly content. 

This was the spring of year four. The fourth year since the house emptied forever. The fourth year of waiting, watching, encouraging returns. The fourth year of recognising it was over. Everything she had ever done since the first birth had been focused on getting them through. Earning enough money to put a roof over their heads and food on the table. Spending enough time to teach them how to start, how to stand up, how to love, how to survive. Working relentlessly for their security and happiness, Supporting them through their false starts and boomerang launches.

And now it was done. And she had to start again. But the very act of commencement would make it final. The minute a foot was moved, a hand stretched out to begin, it would finally be over. Separate lives, severed, unconnected. She was caught. Suspended in a net she couldn’t cut. A fish out of the water, lost without purpose. She could begin again. Some days it was tempting. They never contacted her so she always initiated something - a text, a message, a meme or a gif. Something to beat the drum of connection. Message metronomes ticking daily between them. There was no doubt she was tired of that one way traffic but that was how it had always been and, she supposed, how it would remain.

Always busy. She’d always been busy but the black hole had taken her energy first, lulled her into hopelessness. What is there to show for it all? No reward, no thanks, no company. Yet she wouldn’t trade a second of her time with them. 

The night air chilled the tears on her cheeks. The front gate remained closed and no cars stirred the dust on the long gravel driveway. There was no ping or alert on her phone — still monitored night and day in case one of them was lost in the night, to drink, to heartbreak, to chance. 

She had to move. The teacup too heavy to lift, brimming over with sorrow, filled with longing for a family long gone. Eventually she lumbered inside, closing the door behind her. The light shone on the table they’d gathered round so often. Where they’d laughed and fought and laughed again. Where fortunes had been formed and futures explored. The marks of their history ingrained in the wood. She didn’t eat much now. Didn’t seem much point. Cooking for one was a chore, cooking for many was a delight but, just in case, she’d made cake. Chocolate, just as they liked it, waiting at the centre of the table. Candles ready to light. A birthday ready to be celebrated. 

Greedily, the black hole grasped at the last of her hope, choking her until tears flowed again. 

Nobody was coming home.