I Talk to the Radio When the House Is Quiet

public radio in the kitchen. not for news. for voices. the house is quiet in a way that used to feel peaceful and now sometimes feels like a held breath. i answer the hosts. they don't mind. solitude isn't loneliness every day. some days it's just lunch. afternoon nap was not planned and lasted twenty-two minutes exactly according to the stove clock. dreams were mundane and comforting. i called a friend and got voicemail and left a message about rain like a weather reporter for one listener. the mirror in the elevator showed a face i still think of as thirty until the lights agree otherwise. errands took longer because i refused to rush and that felt like victory. a clerk offered a senior discount i did not request and i accepted without performance. small economies matter when fixed income is not abstract.

Public radio in the kitchen. Not for news. For voices.

The house is quiet in a way that used to feel peaceful and now sometimes feels like a held breath. I answer the hosts. They do not mind.

Solitude is not loneliness every day. Some days it is just lunch with someone who does not expect you to perform wellness.

Aging alone is a skill you learn without a manual: which silences to fill, which to keep, when to call a niece and when to enjoy the lack of agenda.

The radio asked a question about poetry. I said yes out loud. That counted as company.

I do not need a moral. I need an honest next step. Sometimes that is rest. Sometimes it is showing up again before you feel ready.

The story continues in the body after the words stop. Shoulders lower, or they do not. Tomorrow arrives with its own list. I am still here, which is not nothing.

Know someone who should read this?