The Journey Inward

Dark timber beams race up
The high ceiling that slants to an apex.
Floor to ceiling curtains shut out the darkening sky
Behind the wall of windows.
The long, deep room is lit by soft lamplight
Filled with comfortable seating
In a variety of sizes and shapes.
Dad settles into his chair
Whiskey sour on the side table
Reading a magazine and twirling his imaginary hair.
When he's done, he'll initial it LBH and write the date
In his immaculate script.
Mom is on the other side of the wall,
Alternating between sips of Diet Coke
And puffs of her cigarette
Playing Solitaire at the kitchen table.
The boys are everywhere-
Up and down, in and out, 
Chasing, wrestling, shooting hoops, 
Ready to administer a dead arm to passersby.
My sister disappears behind her bedroom door,
Walls strewn with psychedelic posters,
The smell of incense and sound of Peter Frampton
Wafting downstairs.
The rhythm of my family,
Each member laying down their beat.
And I watch.  From my spot tucked away 
Behind the couch, away from the hustle and bustle.
I see, but am not seen.
I watch, alone, left to my own devices,
But loving the solitude.
I sort my paper dolls, making families
And giving names
Inventing voices and stories
Imagining their lives.
The rhythm of evening
In the little world I've created
In the dimness, 
In my space,
Just me,
Layering my beat into
The rhythm of my family.

Photo:  High Bridge, NJ.  9.16.23 By LA