Words Like Silent Raindrops

There’s not a ton of evidence around the apartment to indicate Abbi’s absence.

I haven’t been sitting around in my boxers watching TV, eaten frozen pizza, and tossing empties into a pile in the corner.

Nah, to the contrary, I’ve been dressed almost the entire weekend. The sink’s empty, the dishwaher’s full of clean dishes, the garbage is out, the plants are watered, there are three loads of laundry in the wash and not one empty anywhere.

My primary indulgence has been an almost non-stop PBS and NPR soundtrack. In thirty-six hours, I’ve watched two Novas (Astrospies, Secrets of the Parthenon), one Frontlines (Return of the Taliban), one American Experience (The Lobotomist), one episode of Nature (on the symbiotic relationship between horshoe crabs and red knot birds) plus CBS Sunday Morning. 60 Minutes is on deck in the DVR.

In between, I’ve listened to NPR’s On The Media, plus PRI’s Studio 360 and Marketplace like sonic grout.

I also spent a fair portion of yesterday afternoon in our walk-in closet, otherwise known as my recording studio, where I’d laid down eighteen tracks of the same three chords (A, D and G, if you were curious).

In between it all, I’ve been transcribing “Mister Rogers & Me” interviews. I finished Davy Rothbart’s this afternoon, did a pass on our tour of the Pittsburgh Children’s Museum, and am now re-visiting 826NYC.

In fact, I haven’t been this alone or had this much free time on my hands in months, maybe even since before I got married. It’s kind of odd. The silence is sort of unsettling. There’s no laughter, just white walls and a cold, steady rain outside.

Luckily, there’s plenty to do, like putting the clothes in the dryer.

And luckily, Abbi comes home tomorrow.