There is an unearthly silence in the house broken only by snapping crack of Blue tarpaulins that swathe half my house from eaves to foundations when they wave in the wind.
The dogs are silent.
The cats sleep.
I can’t even hear the chickens.
In fact I am focussing on the silence and it is so empty.
Because The Boy is not here.
He is not surreptitiously sneaking around his bedroom when he knows he should be in bed then pretending to be asleep when I look in. He’s not saying he needs to go for a wee or a poo or that he needs some water or a banana or in fact that he even needs me.
He’s with Granny and Grandpa.
And the hole a four year old leaves in a home when he’s not there is enormous! A four year old can’t help living, can’t help creating life. There are no toys scattered all over the sitting room; there are no crumbs or ketchuppy smears on the kitchen table, there are no towels littered around the bathroom, there is no trail of clothes leading to his bedroom door. His bed is not slept in.
I am counting the hours until his return and when he does then no doubt I will forget he’s ever been away and get annoyed about the toys not being put away, that all his clothes are everywhere they shouldn’t be, that he won’t go to bed when he’s told, that he’s pestering me when I am working, that he’s exhausting!
But until that time – I’m missing him like mad…..