She is still in bed as I get ready for school.
Not in her dorm six hours away, but right under our own roof.
As I empty the dishwasher, the lonely horn of a morning train creeps all the way to my house from town.
I know she is listening.
Upstairs she can hear the sounds of home.
It’s not the doors echoing in the hallway of her dorm,
Or the students outside her window.
It’s the quiet of home.
I’m so glad you’re here.