It’s that hour when day nears its end. The hour every mother knows, her whole world aches for her husband to walk through the door offering a mature word or two, joining in the crusade of lifting littles, drying tears and wiping hands. It’s that hour! I hold my breath, my patients my lonely tears. I long to hear him come in, I tell my self he sleeps a world away and to call just to hear his voice would be unthoughtful. I can manage this I can get through another night of feeding and tucking alone. I play jumping jacks of the mind to gear my energy to sail through this hour. The exercise to jump through the gathering storm of feelings has been the discipline of this hour, yes, but also this day. My last grocery shop a deep dramatic sigh over organic blueberries, a good-bye hug from the family physician simmers the fear of living far from medical help, the absence of nervous glances around the shadows of the bank, courteous driving, nature all around, autumn’s air. I whisper good-bye to the goodness of this life, so grateful to have had a long sweet sip this year. And then through the dull feeling inside I feel anticipation, glorious thoughts of seeing my love every day, how I will welcome him as he comes in every evening engaging in the relay of lifting littles, drying tears and wiping hands, side-by-side!