One room

I live in a room. Literally. One room.

Before coming to my son’s home, my wife and I had lived in a seven-room apartment whose sunroom directly overlooked the lake. Sunrises and moonrises over the water were breathtaking, and it was fun to watch airplanes heading for O’Hare from the east. One Sunday evening, we counted eighteen within our vision at the same moment. 

Life changed when Ann died suddenly more than nine years ago. My daughter-in-law asked me to move in with her and my son’s family – them and their daughter. I immediately agreed. I had lived alone before marriage and I traveled alone often for my work; I figured I could do it again. Indeed, I could have, but the reality of having become truly alone would have been unpleasant. There’s an enormous difference between being alone and being lonely. I often experience the former, rarely the latter.

My out-the-window vista has changed dramatically – no longer the vastness of the lake, now just two back yards, ours and the neighbors’. The rest of my life has become similarly defined, and I’ve had to broaden my people horizons. Ann likely wouldn’t recognize my personality change. I’m aware that I’ve opened up; I had to extend my boundaries and let others into my world, or I’d go nuts. It’s not so bad, but it certainly is different.