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The house is lonely quiet. The only sound I hear is the whirring of the laptop stand’s fan and the clicking of my fingers on the keyboard. Absent is the sound of my boy’s feet in the hallway, the crinkling of the Dorito’s bag as he absconds with it down to the computer room, the muffled sounds of XBOX videos on You Tube and the occasional cry, “Mom!” from down below. Despite laying in bed all day my feet feel swollen as if I’d been working instead. My legs feel so heavy that the thought of moving them to roll over seems overwhelming. My comforter lies twisted covering my feet to my waist then cascades off of the side of the bed like a waterfall. Instead of a person occupying half of my queen sized bed, two novels, The Joy of Cooking, a hand bound organizer and an opened Moleskin journal with a Parker 51 fountain pen next to it, lie to my left in place of a person. Next to my children, those items are the most precious things in my life. A collage of clothes forms layers, like sedimentary rock, atop my dresser. Dried pussy willows appear from behind my clothes, the vase totally obscured. Light from the tall floor lamp, borrowed from the living room, emanates upwards and lightens the eggplant purple wall behind it. My nostrils detect the constant presence of dust. The only comfort comes from the feeling of my head, back and buttocks cushioned by the contours of my mattress and pillow. The room feels crowded, overburdened by my majestic furniture leftover from another time, another lifestyle. Something is out of place. Is it the room, the furniture, or perhaps me?