February evening

Came back inside from the blustery cold this evening. It's a cold subdued night in the city. The streets outside are deserted and people are in their warm homes getting ready for sleep.

My sister is home. She's ironing in the room down the hall and I can hear the iron's quiet hiss and it passes over clean cotton. Smoothing out the wrinkles for tomorrow's chaotic day in the hospital. Putting an ordered seamless front against all the chaos that comes from putting the sickest people in the world into one building along with the thousands of others who are in charge of managing all the damaged cells, organs, blood, and egos.

The smell of steamed linens reminds me of my mother who to this day still irons her bedsheets.

My kitty, fed by my evening kill at the supermarket, licks his paws and looks to me with content in his eyes.

The fridge sings a familiar hum and the clean dishes sit by the sink in their blissful normalcy.

No talking, no rehashing, no questions, no answers.

Outside it's still so cold.

It's February, and everyone is sleeping.