I didn’t drive for 11 days straight. That has to be a record for me. For 11 days I was surrounded, literally, by family, and friends close enough to be family. I was hardly ever alone, and for the last few years I have been telling myself that being alone is just the greatest thing. No witnesses is what I told myself was the best part, for my own silliness. And for the most part that’s still true. But it’s so quiet in here now that the coffee pot has finished its morning duties. The traffic noises haven’t begun. It’s too quiet. Turning on the TV might provide noise, if noise is all I wanted to hear. This has been my home for a year now, but I’ve been traveling for half that time at least. And now I’m here, surrounded by all my things. Sentimental reminders of other times, of the people I have cared about my whole life. But sitting in the dark and quiet I realize that I can’t hear the sound of breathing. Of life. That’s the sound that’s missing…
A Snowbird's Life Through the Lens 