Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Growing Fonder

The Bohemian flies out on a short trip and Jeb and I take him to the airport to catch a night flight.

We return home to a quiet house and I tuck Jeb into bed.

There’s a palpable vacancy in the stillness of our home. All of the lights are off in the other room. No splashing at the kitchen sink.

In the blue nightlight of Jeb’s bedroom he says, “I miss him already.”

These past weeks have had me zooming in and out in my perspectives. I’ve been watching chaotic pixelations de-blur to take organized form, then fuzz again on macro-vision. Sliding the view-finder in, then out.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reservedIt’s good to change the focal point. Feel the differences. Experience absence.

My heart is already full of fondness. Apparently, just growing more.

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Frothy Dots

Jeb wakes with the sniffles and I lose my morning writing hour.

The Bohemian responds with a frothy Vitamix version of orange juice using fresh fruit from our tree. Almost like the Orange Julius drinks I used to get as a kid at the mall, only oh-so-much better.

And once again, there they are. More dots…

Jessica Dofflemyer

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Morning Rounds

In our house, I am the first to rise.

I wake before the birds begin to sing, just before the sky seeps pink on our backyard mango tree.

I brew coffee, light sandalwood incense and type some string of words.

Then I return to silence. Our sleeping house is still full of dreaming.

There are two beds.
In one, a Bohemian man deep rests his gardening body.
In the other, an eight year old boy is fluffed beneath a comforter of feathers.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reservedIn early light I make my rounds.

Crawl in beside the Bohemian to feel the restful closeness which I know will soon morph to activities of breakfast and jingling car keys. He may never open his eyes – not quite this early. But his hands will meet me, arms will pull me in.

Eventually, they will release me to the second bed. Where I’ll slide in and tuck beneath the full soft blankets, filling my nose with the soft scent of my son’s hair. Feel his boney elbow press against my ribs. Whisper to him, “it’s another beautiful day” and know not just what he’ll do.

In fickle eight-year old fashion, he may turn and hug me tight. Or he may squirm and grumble “mom, I’m tired…”

The mango comes on in golden glory. Birds seem to celebrate the sun. The stick of incense, now ash. Coffee mug is empty.

The stirring begins. Soon morning’s water will be splashing in the sink.