One Saturday evening…

The Shoemaker's Daughter. A memoir of days, both past and present, by Rhonda Mason.

I wave goodbye to Rick and the four big boys at the garage door.

The car pulls up the driveway and then crunches down the gravel road.

Moments later, the house is quiet.

Lewis and I grin at each other.

I carry him upstairs, give him his bottle, and put him down for the night.

I take a shower in the twilight and wash my hair.

When I step back into the bedroom, Lewis is completely quiet. I pad quietly over to his cot. He is fast asleep.

I put my grey linen dress back on, and head downstairs in the dark.

I flick on the range hood light in the kitchen, and I heat up the leftovers from last night’s dinner with other women from the church.

There’s a lovely piece of chicken, some green salad, and Lynsey’s delicious potato salad with the soy sauce and honey marinade.

With great care, I arrange everything on a white plate and then splash some balsamic vinegar onto the green salad.

I also poor myself a glass of orange juice mixed with sparkling water.

I take my food, my drink, and my cutlery into the lounge room and place everything down on the coffee table.

It is now completely dark, so I turn on the two corner lamps for some ambient light.

I walk over to the window overlooking the front path and open it as wide as it can go. A beautiful breeze immediately drifts through the room, along with the dance music from the wedding party up the road.

I grab a cushion from the couch, and I kneel on it at the coffee table.

For the next twenty minutes, I eat and drink by myself.

I savour every bite of food and every sip of my drink.

The breeze gives me tingles, and the music makes me smile.

This solitude. This peace. This quiet.

It refreshes me. Soothes me. Calms me.

Despite the intensity of the week gone past, I feel invigorated.

I feel alive…

  • Heike said:

    Dear Ronnie, it's strange, but sometimes we feel more alive in the calm, in solitude than in a crowded places filled with people's voices and laughter. Sometimes it's just calming observing this world with distance. Somewhere I read > solitude matters - for some people it's the air they breathe.