In their homes, they stayed. There was nowhere else to go. Unkept were the countertops and living rooms. At first, they cleaned it all. “For my own sanity,” they said, “I shall clean. What if we are to have guests again soon?” For a week, they cleaned until the dishes and heaviness weighed them down.

In their homes, they moved. Hobbying was the new activity. They hobbied and played. The sun joined them in their whimsy. For a week, they hobbied and played until impatience and darkness outwit them.

In their homes, they sat, read, watching, listening. Blue light shown on their faces and flooded their ears. For a week, their homes were blue until the lights flickered, and their homes were black. 

In their homes, they were quiet. They looked about their homes in the dim light. 

They could feel the dishes,

They could see the impatience,

They could hear the darkness.

“Isn’t it time for me to go home? They say, ‘Home is wherever I’m with you.’ I’m with no one. This place I call home is ugly. Home must be somewhere else.”

In their homes, they wept. For the first time in a long time

They saw their homes,

They saw the mess

And felt the impatience.

For the first time in a long time. They saw what they needed to see.

In their homes, they rested.