The resounding silence

When I was a senior in college, I had the opportunity to live by myself for several months. I must admit, it was a glorious experience. I had just come off the mission, where I was obligated to pass every waking moment with a companion superglued to my line of sight. I followed that up with a string of unfortunate, mentally unstable roommates who routinely attempted to suck me into the vortex of their insanity. After all that, living alone was a liberating experience. There was much to love about flying solo. I loved the way the floors only needed to be vacuumed once a week as opposed to every day. I loved the fact that dirty dishes were never left in the sink. I loved the quiet study time that replaced the constant noise of a blaring stereo or television in the adjoining bedroom. And I especially loved how my food managed to last a lot longer when it was no longer being stealthily stolen by cash-strapped housemates. There were also things that I didn't particularly love. I hated coming home at the end of a long day to a cold, dark, empty house. While there is much to be said about silence, there is also something inherently wonderful about coming home to people who care to see you. In college I experienced extremes when it came to roommates; there were ones that I absolutely loved, and others that made me seriously consider taking up residence in my car. Coming home to the ones I absolutely loved was always something I looked forward to. Being married has allowed me to combine the things I loved most about living alone with all the things I appreciated most about living with good roommates. It has been fantastic. But tonight, when I came home from Portland, the house was cold, dark, and empty. Part of me knows I should be savoring this unique opportunity because it means I'll be able to devote my utterly undivided attention to preparing for my final exams. It means I can spend the entire week in my pajamas if I feel so inclined. It means I can eat macaroni and cheese for every meal and no one is around to care. It means I can steal the covers and mimic a starfish in the ocean all I want, and no one will object. These are all the indisputable benefits of solo living. But the silence weighs on me heavily. Sometimes being alone isn't really all that great.