The Guest Room

These are transitional years in my family–sons going off to college, transferring to different colleges, graduating from college, going onto grad school, moving into their own apartments. During the interim, like fledgling birds learning to fly on their own, my sons return to the nest–

Bringing their friends with them.

Fine. Friends are always welcome to stay the night. At the moment, the house has one VERY active guest bedroom, redecorated in light cherry furniture, with color coordinated curtains, rug, and quilt. It’s lovely. But since I keep farmer’s hours and my kids keep no bedtime schedule whatsoever, some mornings, I don’t know who is sleeping in that lovely guest room. Or, on the sleep sofa. Or, on the other three sofas. Or, on the spare cot. Or, on the floor, for that matter.

After resorting to counting strange cars in the drive and unfamiliar shoes on the rug by the door, I’ve now asked for a brief note, detailing who is in the house. So far, the system is working. I now have names to go with the winter jackets and scarves strewn all over the floors.

After the Christmas insanity, the guest bedroom is empty this morning. On the way down to the kitchen for a cup of tea, I went in, just to appreciate the deafening silence.


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