The past two days have been my first days at home alone with Charlie. Yesterday I looked outside on a lovely summer morning and realized that these days are open, slow and precious. The house feels like a cabin in the woods and my little companion is quiet and kind in his demeanor. We are like two hermits, partners in solitude.
Each day, I have thought about venturing out into the world beyond home and garden, and each day I have declined. I don't want to see other people and shatter the illusion that Charlie and I are the only two creatures on earth. I certainly don't want to get into my car. Instead, I make food, doze on the couch, nurse my young friend upon request, let him stare into my face during his brief periods of alertness, water the garden, and listen to music.
This quiet will change tomorrow evening, with the changing tide of what will be my weeks during the summer. Ellis will return, and soon after Nate will follow. Life will become boisterous as we slip into the weekend. I may think about returning some of the phone calls that I've ignored and acknowledge that the larger world exists. I will likely enjoy it.
But present always, will be my Charlie. My anchor into the quiet life, the present moment, the pure pleasure of slowness.