Everything and Nothing

Here I sit in my kitchen with a glass of wine to my left while Clementi sonatinas play soothingly. Quietly. I hear the music and not the noise of my children. Their childish noises are content, not overly boisterous and not loud in any sense. There is meatloaf in the oven, and it is just enough cooked that its aroma is starting to tickle my nose. Caroline intermittently crawls under my stool and then walks from the refrigerator to her favorite cabinet where she likes to pull out boxes of pasta and scatter the boxes across the floor. Along with the peaceful strains of Clementi I hear an occasional "uh-oh!" or "NO!" come out of my youngest's mouth.

Where have I been these past few weeks? Nowhere and everywhere. Busy and, yet, ordinary.

I have time. I have the will. And I have lots to say, but tonight I lack the ability to convey any of it. I want to share it all. And I want to share nothing.

So, back to Clementi-- and that meatloaf that, despite being a big blob of greasy meat, smells intensely appetizing.