There’s some sort of wrench on the table–a bike tool–and bike parts, frames, wheels and chains cluttering the front porch. There’s a pair of muddy cleats in the corner, and matching muddy hiking boots on the porch steps. Smelly socks and sweats hang out of the laundry basket. Text books with papers stuffed inside are stacked on the counter. Signs of a teenage son living here.
There’s so much life in it–things in process, used and about to be used again, things to fix and wash and get ready for the next event.
He’s the last kid living at home, and he does spread out. He’s taking over the space left open by the others’ absence. Maybe it’s just nice to stretch out after living with so many people. Maybe he misses the commotion, so he creates it with his own stuff.
Whatever the reason, I like it. I miss the commotion too: the coming and going, the scheduling and coordinating, the feeding and the packing up and unloading.
It is nice to have it quiet, I guess–to put my computer down and return to find it in the same spot, to not have to do laundry every day, to throw together small, easy meals. Right now, though, I relish the bother of shuffling a little clutter around–signs of life.
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