A quiet house and a restless mind.

My parents have gone out with SisterJ & her husband for an early Father's Day dinner. The house is dark and quiet, still and peaceful. There's one small table light on in the dining room as darkness starts to settle in. It's the kind of night I would've been happy to have all to myself, even though I knew it wouldn't last.

A year ago, now would've been about the time that Nana would be making her way into my room, asking where everybody was. I would've put down my book and clicked the TV on to a Law & Order rerun or been searching through the menu for something vaguely acceptable for us to watch. She'd be full of conversation: having been ignored or abused upstairs all day, she'd chatter on ,relieved that there was someone who was finally listening, finally acknowledging her.

I would've turned the wheelchair when I heard the door close behind her, because if I left it sitting towards me, she'd sit with her neck turned sideways all night, apparently unable to remember that the chair has wheels and was therefore movable.

I would've rolled my eyes a million times by now, most likely over her inability to do the right thing in regards to the PUS, and ultimately, we would've changed the subject before either of us got too mad. We were the only company available for each other, after all. No sense pissing off the person you were going to be sitting next to all night.

So tonight, the quiet is bittersweet - I know she's not going to interrupt this blog post (because I think it's rude to type while people are trying to talk to you) or rant and rave about the latest atrocity those 'little bastards' had committed. I hear their heavy footfalls above me and think of how unfair it is that they are still here and she is not.

I think about how there are pictures of pictures of her at SisterJ's wedding, but no pictures of her, and how she would've laughed and cried and danced and clapped.

I think of how it's been nearly half a year without her, and how that seems both impossibly long and incredibly short at the same time.

I wonder about what the next six months will bring us, and close my eyes and hope that there'll be some peace - no matter how unlikely that seems.

And then I go back to the quiet and wish that I had treasured the interruptions more while I had them.