Mar 01 2008
Home Alone
I woke up to an empty house. I could tell by the silence slowly thickening the air. No sounds of shuffling papers or the click-clacking of keyboard keys came from the study. No noises of pots clanging, timers beeping, or food sizzling wafted up from the kitchen. I could neither hear my dad’s clomping footsteps nor the rapid rhythmic pad of my mom’s feet. No one knocked on my door to ensure I was awake before entering my room. It was silent. I was home alone.
The silence thickened as I walked downstairs. It was broken only by the soft whirr the water heater made as the water within it boiled and the quiet hum of the refrigerator as cool air circulated through it. I walked toward the piano, unusually aware of the sound of my feet un-sticking themselves from the polished floorboards each time I took a step forward. I sat down on the piano bench, lifted my hands to the keys, and attempted to decrease the density of silence by playing a prelude by Bach. I stopped soon afterwards; the notes merely fell flat.
My dog and I jumped a mile when the mail was shoved through its slot, hitting the floor with a thud. I watched his silver-streaked muzzle quiver as he sniffed the air cautiously, trying to discern if anyone was there. He lay his head back on the couch and drifted off to sleep. I was alone again.
Upstairs at my desk, I listen to my pen scratch its way across the paper, filling out the answers to my study questions for history. I have only the ticking of the clock and the immaculate white walls for company. I wait for someone to return home.
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