Everyone's Gone

Tonight, at 8:30, sitting in the dining room, three out of five lamps shining, feeling slightly guilty because Martin is upstairs with the girls and I stayed below under auspices of finishing the vacuuming. . .tonight, this is what I hear:
Three fans whirring, one at my back, the wind picking up strands of my hair and blowing them around my eyes;
The ticking and spinning of an insect choir outside in the walnut trees and raspberry brambles. The leaves of the philodendron on the piano lift and fall as the oscillating fan whirs its white head around to nod, the orange and black wallhangings from India lift, elephants, peacocks, and all. Up ahead, I hear the pound of little feet and down below I hear my fingers clicking on the keys, a gentle rainfall to the thunder up above.

And. . .now, suddenly, here's Bea on my lap, her bare thighs warm and her hair smelling of bedtime; Martin's calling, his voice muffled as it threads down the stairs and into the roar of the fans. Bea looks up for a kiss--she's restless--and here are the other two girls, Elspea squeezing my arm, Bea pushing her away--Two seconds, I'll be right there! And Merry, book in hand, paces the room, chanting, ONE, TWO! ONE, TWO!

The sounds of my family are small compared to the symphony of company. . .but a "quiet house?" (Elspeth just rolled off a chair.) Never.