Division of The Inside from The Out

Inside they share food at a table made by him. They eat together and share events of their day. She asks if everyone's home work is done. She tells them she loves them very much.

Outside he watches from his car, no longer welcome here. It is his home no more because of what he's done - because of what he's left undone.

Inside they do laundry, folding, distributing it among the members of their little tribe. She thinks:  you can measure your life by laundry - how big the children's clothes have gotten, what you've done the day before, what you'll need for tomorrow, what you've worn out.

Outside he cries, his head on the wheel, his heart in his throat, his hands in his hair, his pain overwhelming. He didn't know pain could be so cold, so black.


Inside the children take baths, brush their teeth, and get ready for their mother to tuck them in, to read them stories and say prayers with them.

Outside he begins to gain his composure, he knows he must drive home and get some sleep. He knows he must work and provide for the family that won't let him back in.

Inside she turns off the lights, she runs the dishwasher, she starts the last load of laundry, she takes out the trash, she adds to her to-do list - which is always longer than her can-do list.

Outside he drives away into the night. He is heading for his bed in the room he grew up in, in the house of his parents. He is heading for an empty bed and a night of dreams filled with regrets.

Inside she stops, nothing left to do but go to bed. She smokes a cigarette on her porch - knowing better but not really caring. She weeps silently now, now that no one can see. She weeps because she doesn't know how to be alone but can't bear to live the life she did before.