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The Interstices of Life
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These few minutes at the end of the day, when my day job is done and there's no time to start another project, just straighten my desk--and then the commute home, caring for husband and giving him his meds, letting the dog out, making dinner, straightening up messes left around the house and keeping him company while he eats and watches Netflix--these few minutes of quiet repose now, before all that, are wonderful.

The employees downstairs, slapping their dominoes down in the break room, are gone to their afternoon assignments. The loud, brassy, domineering coworker who sucks all the oxygen from the office has left for the day to inflict herself on her partner. The telephone is blessedly quiet, I do not know why, but I question it not.

I can faintly hear traffic passing on the street and trucks moving into parking stalls in the distance (I'm next to a trucking company).

Even the friendly, quiet voices have found a resting point and all is quiet, soothing. My keyboard clicks seem an intrusion, loud, tapping.

When I stop, it's all quiet again. I live in the interstices of life, in these empty bits of solitude tucked away between the raucous slices of reality.

Balm to my spirit.

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