Love, the blind importunate,
Craves touch and sight;
Briefly parting, feels and fears
Eternal night.

Fear is sweeping on the wind
Like acrid foam.
I have said farewell to peace
Till he comes home.

~ Isabella Holt, Lament, 1892
I am sleeping just over the hill, in the cedar house of my teen years, a thin line of ever-bearing red oaks all that separates me from the familiar yellow form of my very own, dream-come-true farmhouse. A farmhouse full tonight of the sounds of my children sleeping - four little voices sighing breaths, the flop of limbs across each other, the midnight wakings in search of a "Nuksy" (Amelia's pacifier) or a "ahhh-bah" (Caleb's bottle). I will sleep soundly tonight. I will never move from the position I first rest in.

Such an empty feeling, to be away against one's will. To surrender hearth and home to others sweet watchful eyes. To be so suddenly relieved of duty and of pleasant purpose. My days pass swiftly in other pursuits abandoned for years as I tend to wee ones: connections with old friends dusted off and renewed with one single long conversation over lunch plates; phone calls uninterrupted; e-mails promptly answered. The longing of my heart, though, is to be home. How earnestly I am praying that my scan will show nothing! That I will be home on Saturday, lamenting the brevity of my "vacation".