Dear Tired Evenings,
You come quietly, after the weight of the day has pressed me thin. You slip in through the door when the sun has gone down and the house has begun its gentle sigh. You don’t care about what I didn’t finish. You don’t ask me to pick up the socks on the floor or chase the crumbs off the table. You don’t mind that my shirt is wrinkled, or that I’ve worn the same jeans three days in a row.
With you, there is no pretending. You let me sink into the chair with my shoulders heavy, my eyes half-closed. You let the undone things stay undone. You bring softer sounds — the hum of the fridge, the low creak of wood, the slow, even breath of a child asleep. You lay the dog at my feet as if to say, here is all the company you need tonight.
It’s in these hours that I notice the pieces of the day I rushed past. My son’s toy cars lined up on the living room rug— not neat, but purposeful, each one parked as if waiting for its turn. His blanket tossed in the corner, still holding the shape of his small body. The quiet gift of knowing he is safe in his dreams upstairs. A half-finished board game, my wife and I were playing, still sitting on the kitchen table, patiently waiting for another day of mystery and adventure. And River, always River, pressing close, sighing like he, too, has carried the weight of the day and is glad to put it down. These are the things you uncover for me, the gentle treasures that daylight keeps hidden in its hurry.
For a long time, I thought you were the scraps. The leftover hours after the real living had been used up. But I see now you are the marrow of the day, the quiet center I would miss if I rushed past you. You are where the noise finally lays itself down. Where the lamp light turns soft hues of amber gold. Where I remember what it feels like to simply be.
You remind me that weariness has its own kind of beauty. That to be tired is not to fail, but to have given myself entirely to the day. You remind me that rest is not laziness but a gift, and that sometimes just sitting in the dim light with a cup in my hand is enough.
I don’t always meet you with grace. Sometimes I stumble, short-tempered and restless, still chasing lists that will never end. But you wait anyway. You always wait. And when I finally stop, I find you there, steady and patient, holding the soft edge of the day for me.
Thank you for that.
Yours,
Me
The CJBuzz 