Solitude was a precious commodity in my bustling childhood home. The top bunk was my pillowed oasis. Elevated above the happy chaos, my only companions were stuffed animals. They didn't say much, and that was fine by me. We shared tea in silence.

I still savor moments when the house empties and gives my thoughts room to stretch and roam.

Yesterday afternoon I was alone. Everyone had errands to run and appointments to keep, so I was curled up on the couch with a book.  Breeze and city sounds began pressing into the living room through an open window. But I didn't mind. Luxurious solitude had made me generous, so I welcomed the company. 

The scratching and scraping of little claws somewhere above my head shattered the calm. In the attic, a race kitchen-ward was in progress. It ended in a crash of what sounded like pots. Rats!  They had crossed over.

Heart thumping, I ran to my room and closed the door, sealing it like a bunker against the furry intruders. I waited out the invasion on my bed with a new book. I'd dropped the other one while fleeing the rats.

Finally, familiar voices broke the silence. I left my room to join them.