“Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.”
I’m finally adjusted to our children being grown and away from home: I no longer instinctively grab too many plates and utensils when setting the table. The laundry and dishwasher loads patiently wait several days without being too full and the tidiness of their former bedrooms is no longer disturbing as I pass by.
Even so, I need to know that living and loving is actually happening under this roof and that all is well.
It has been two days since my husband went out of town for a work-related conference and I’ve been knocking around an unbearably empty and quiet house, talking to myself out loud and looking for things to do and people to take care of.
I have a serious case of the dwindles. The cure will arrive back home tonight.
I realize, like the fading of a dwindled dawn, these are cycles to which I must adapt, appreciative for the reminder of what I have living with and loving you every day and what you restore in me.
But for now, it’s clear: time without you diminishes me.