Night slips into early morning hours, there is comfort in the silence. One weeks time has passed since chaos erupted marking the all too familiar exodus of my daughter and grandchildren. The hurt inflicted, slowly heals and fades with time, it ebbs and flows like the tide, each moment, I am trying to learn the lesson meant for me. I am trying to rise above the ashes, to recover from the latest emotion wrought blows, enough to carry on with my life, but not so much so as to forget and let my guard down for the impending next time. As I sit and contemplate these long years of back and forth comings and goings, the cyclonic tumult that eventually erupts into my household, the stolen "missing" items, shards of treasured belongings, hopes and dreams. The making over of our tiny home to house family members who behave like short term guests in a cheap motel. Eventual disrespect and disregard for rules, for decency, for fellow feeling. I look around at the disarray in my home, so representative of my shattered psyche. I am determined to rearrange my living room back to what it should be, to remove the bureaus, and the couch that converts to a bed, to make a visual, physical statement that this will not happen again, to reclaim my home, to reclaim me. The difficulty in all of this is not so much the conversion of home and heart, making room time and again for hollow hopes and broken promises. It is not so much the ensuing dramatic outbursts, unappreciative attitude, leading to a complete, exasperating, degradation of my lifestyle. It is the time that has sifted away for so many years, time is precious, it is fleeting. I am not getting any younger. Neither is my husband, nor my teenaged son. It is time for change. As I contemplate this, and make plans to straighten out my home, my life, to remain firm in my resolve, to strengthen myself, I say a prayer and draw in a deep breath. It is a new day.