Contentment

On obvious levels I long for it: daily domestic certainty, light, familiarity, the family dog, family. I see an armchair reserved for the man (though that’s not fair), a kitchen where something’s always astir, clamoring little ones, invasions at Easter and Christmas by in-laws, out-of-tune crowds on birthdays, board games, sporting goods, and downstairs or up, room for a child who’s seen the edge of her destiny to hide, unseen but not unhappy, for most of the party. As mother, I don’t see myself at all, in part because the self is invisible outside mirrors and photographs, in part because I’ll never occupy that house, having found the sacred space in my day, known what it had sentenced me to, and accepted it with the unequivocal ease of a girl just old enough and viable.