I walked through my house the other night. My eyes taking it all in.

No one would know that a man does not live here.

That startled me.

I know a man doesn’t live here. Each night when I go to bed, I remember that.

There is no snoring body for me to crawl over. No strong arms to wrap around me in the night.

There is definitely little boy feet in my bed at night. He traipses in around 2 a.m. every night without fail.

Little boy feet, yes. Man feet? no.

A casual observer would never know that more than 600 nights have passed without a man in this house.

If someone truly stopped to observe they could tell.

Even though there is men’s cologne in the medicine cabinet, there are only 2 toothbrushes.

Even though the laundry is always sitting around–it is clean laundry ready to be folded. Not dirty waiting to be picked up.

The laundry has 2 distinct themes. Woman and little boy.

There are no 32×30 Levis to put away. No Sunday shirts with oil stains on them.

The back steps full of shoes discarded on the way in are Lady size 9 and little boy size 12. The men’s size 9 deck shoes are neatly stacked in the closet–a major sign that a man doesn’t live in this house.

If the observer moved from room to room, truly looking, they’d find hard evidence.

The fridge is missing cream soda & kool aid. The coffee is all flavored, & the milk is skim.

They’d see that the lightbulbs too high to reach from a chair are burned out.

That the second vehicle never moves.

That the shaving cream hasn’t had the lid removed for months.

That the neighbor boy mows.

And should they be very observant they would notice that the man’s suit coats have dust on the shoulders.

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