The man drove home from his office, forlorn because he knew his house would be dark and cold and quiet and lonely. His family had scattered.
His son had gone off to college, married, and moved to a town and hour away — which was all wonderful and proper, but which still left a hole in the man’s heart. And it had pulled the population of the house down to three.
But on this cold night it was to shrink even more — the man’s daughter, you see, was far away with her friends in the youth group, visiting a college (which was also wonderful and proper, if happening too fast). Population: two.
And then the man’s wife had decided to spend this very night in a hotel.
She’d be back, he knew, for she was only attending a conference. In fact, she would undoubtedly return rejuvenated — her faith built up and happiness overflowing. But on this scratchy November night, the population of the man’s house would sink as low as it could and still get mail delivery: one.
And so he pulled into the driveway, trudged up the front walk, and stepped into emptiness.
In the kitchen, he found the first card. “Just wanted to let you know I love you so much! You are a light in this sometimes dark world!” His wife had signed the card with her first name and last initial — to prevent any possible confusion. The man held the card and laughed and his eyes went a bit misty.
Next to the card, he found a series of green sticky notes, all of a more mundane nature, which pulled him back to the present. The first mentioned a prescription that needed picking up, the second alerted him that, “One of the cats might have worms,” and the third, pasted to a broken light fixture, said, “OOPS, dirty laundry made this happen.” The man laughed at the deflection and the blatant anthropomorphism of this last note, and he imagined a conspiracy of dirty undershirts and towels somehow swinging a broomstick.
In the refrigerator, the man found a casserole and directions, and so preheated the oven. Then he walked through the house, flicking on lights, and finding more cards.
In his office, next to his computer: “Have a peaceful evening! Love . . . .”
On his reading table next to a book: “I miss you, but you’ll be able to have an uninterrupted evening. Happy sleep!”
The man sat down at the dining room table with his supper and his glass of milk and spread the notes and cards in front of him. He thought of his family and the sheer blessing of it all overwhelmed him.
The house was still and the lights were dim and the wood stove purred and the cat who might have worms strolled by. (The man eyed the latter suspiciously, especially its back end).
After supper, the man loaded the dishwasher, went through the day’s mail, and wandered through the house picking up daughter droppings and putting them away (his daughter released things from her grasp without volition). He showered, read, put on his pajamas, and prepared for sleep.
In the bedroom, he looked at the queen-sized mattress and realized he’d have the entire thing to himself, not just the usual sliver along the east edge (his wife was a sprawler). But this windfall of square-footage was bittersweet — it reminded him of the guy who’d bought a vast amount of Florida acreage for cheap, sight-unseen, only to find (after 23 eager hours in a 1964 Dodge Dart) that most of it was taken up by swamp.
The bed is big, he thought, but it’s going to be cold without her.
But he was practical man, and so rummaged around until he’d found more warm things to wear, and then he pulled back the icy covers. On the pillow, was the final card: “You are precious to me. Thanks for all you do and for the Lord’s leading in your life!”
And so he drifted off to sleep, a slightly chilled, but thankful man.
Tomorrow, he thought, smiling, my wife will be back, and I won’t have to wear socks to bed.
First published November, 2009