grateful for: the morning after a party

You wake up (a bit late) to stillness and pad out into the living room: the pushed-back furniture and folding chairs that glowed in the warm light of candles and conversation last night are now awash in liquid white morning light. Little traces of friends remain, like the angle of a pillow on the floor or a stray napkin on a bookshelf. The silence, which most mornings feels like ripe possibility for the quiet work you do with books, this morning feels like absence--absence of voices, absence of laughter, absence of hands holding mugs of tea.

But the absence is sweet, because (as absence often does) it speaks to presence, it reminds you that last night they were here, and you discussed books you love and family traditions and good memories and hopes for the future. You chuckled at inane jokes, even sang a few songs, touched shoulders as you passed, stirred cream into coffee.

You warm up some coffee, cut a piece of breakfast cake, and head to a corner of the living room to start the morning's work, but you don't move the furniture back to normal. You decide to let it rest for a while.