At heaven’s gate

I am alone in my house. Gin and the fam are up in Salt Lake with in-laws. M is in the lab up at school. Chaz is house/dog sitting. G’s in his studio and all’s right with the world. It is very quiet—if I shut my mind to the many voices of house disorder. The place is carpeted with Chevron cars, festooned with picture books and back packs and very small jackets. But there is no audible noise. Even the dogs are asleep – and because there is rain, the sun does not sing seductively outside my window.

It’s very peaceful here.

I am remembering a winter evening – maybe ten years ago, now. In the memory, I am seeing through my own eyes – my dining room by lamp light and the top of a child’s head. I was standing by the dining table, helping somebody – M, I think – with his math. Gin was practicing saxophone in the room to my left. Cammon was practicing French horn in family room off to the right. Char may have been playing flute in the living room. Everybody was doing something loud and chaotic and creative. I closed my eyes and stood very still for a moment in the middle of that maelstrom. I was thinking then that this very day, this quiet, peaceful day would someday come.

And what I thought then is what I am thinking again today: peace is not worth the price.