The house is filled with noise but somehow it’s quieter than it’s been in a long time. The radio blares, some dull profound talk, the TV is still on.
Evening falls and, the digital voices extinguished, the rooms reach out with their warm and welcoming embrace, usually so comforting, to encompass the one who inhabits them.
Aching for relief, she sinks into them, hoping to ease the tiredness of a day spent labouring to forget the empty space where a little loved creature usually cuddles, now burning with consuming fever in a foreign place.
Candles are lit – symbolic lights burning bright – and the faint scent of eucalyptus fills the air. Now and then the last calls of bedtime birds ring out – the sounds of home, homeless without its household god.
Alas, there is no relief, and will be none til and unless victory sounds - til then, nothing to do but wait and hope and fight against the fear that the microcosmic battle being waged for a cherished life might be lost.
Tomorrow will bring good news.
(But there have already been so many tomorrows.)
Tomorrow will bring good news.