ANABEL MOORE
Solitude
Whenever I miss home, I think of a specific scene: I walk down the stairs. The sun is just rising: I can see the pinkish-orange light starting to filter through the windows facing the mountains. It’s painfully early, and I am painfully awake. My dad’s already up, and is working on the Seattle Times Jumble: it’s like the Wordle — but in print — and you already have the letters. A bowl of peanut butter oatmeal waits for me. I take my seat at my end of the table, and turn to the Nation page, A2, with the ticker-line of “odds and ends” and “on this day in time.” For 15 minutes, we enjoy the quiet chirping of the finches that haven’t yet mistaken glass windows for air, and the momentary peace before a busy day yet to come.
December 9, 2023
