The figure. The figure is lost, it is lost as times. Disappearance. This figure, my figure, I get lost in a sea of dishes and dirty laundry.I Disappear   behind my apron, the good housewife. Wanting everyone to be happy, to be comfortable. I make dinner for my husband and his out of town visitors, take care of the babies, one sick, feed the dog, just going with it. “There’s food in the fridge, there’s a thermostat in your room in case you get cold” I say to our guests.

“Are you a worrier” response.

“I just want to make sure you are comfortable”

I take Jack and Fiona down to bed, they say goodnight to the house guests. They liked them very   much, the house guests are very nice. Jacks sick so I lay with the babies, Jack falls asleep in my arms, the first time since he was a little baby or the last time he was really sick. Fiona cuddles into my other arm. I enjoy this moment, this peaceful moment, I can hear laughing and talking upstairs. I’m glad Alan is enjoying his visitor, he works and works and works, never hangs out with friends. I never hang out with friends either, figures getting lost. 

The figure walks outside, out under the dark cloudy sky, rain hits her head, shoulders, runs down her back, down her legs, feet cold on the wet asphalt, it’s cold winter rain, not warm summer rain. The figure could melt away, fly away into the clouds. It doesn’t. The figure reappears onto the paper, onto the fabric, repeating over and over again, until the figure dissapears again into a hundred figures or more, or less. 

Reappearing in the kitchen, in the nursery, cleaning, putting on my apron. Drinking one more cup of coffee.