The Shape of Solitude

In the oft-ignored corner of every room I’ve ever lived,

it sits—like grey slime.

Cold when I need cooling,

warm when I need holding.

Weightless until I need its heft.

Opaque, until I stretch it thin enough

to see through.

As an only child, I learned early:

solitude isn’t punishment—

it’s companionship.

When voices rose in the next room,

when adult hands reached where they shouldn’t,

when the world felt too sharp—

it wrapped around me like armor.

In motherhood’s cave,

where echoes of my heartbeat

became lumps I could touch,

solitude pulsed against the walls.

Not empty space, but presence.

Reverberating. Resounding.

Cries of helplessness and love.

A woodpecker’s faithful rhythm

taps against my ribs—

still here, still here, still here.

Not wearing me down,

but wearing me steady.

Now it moves like waves.

Sometimes gentle as bathwater.

Sometimes thunderous.

Setting me adrift,

then tethering me to safe edges,

always returning me

to the shore of myself.

And in the quiet hour before dawn,

when the house holds its breath

and I cup my ceremonial cacao,

solitude flickers like fireflies—

brief, bright reminders

that some kinds of alone

feel like coming home.