I’m not the only one who listens for voices … am I?

Someone tell me I’m not alone here.

That others do the same thing.

For sure, after my wife reads this, she’ll have one more thing to file in the mental folder she keeps on me. Pretty thick folder after 34 years. Strange thing is (thank the Lord), she doesn’t seem to mind even though some of my quirks would drive most people batty in very short order.

I’m 56-years-old and, for reasons many my age understand, I often get up during the night.

But that’s not what I’m going to mention here. What with all of the television ads concerning the things our bodies do as we get older, I’d just be covering some already very over-explained ground.

A bit of background.

All of our kids are out of the house now. Grown up and gone. Comes, eventually, with being a parent.

Our oldest liked computers and had a streak of art in him. He got a degree in computer animation and worked for a company that eventually ran into money problems. To make ends meet, the company had to cut its staff by about 50 percent. He was in the wrong 50 percent.

After several years of putting in some really grinding hours, he found that he was tired of computers and animation and went looking for something totally different. He seems to have found it. He’s now teaching English in Japan.

He tells us that he’s living in a small town somewhere near Osaka and that he’s really taken with the place. He’s been there a year (Yes, as a matter of fact, I keep track of the time.) and will likely stay for another.

We don’t hear from him anywhere near often enough and, when we do, the conversations never seem to go on for as long as we’d like. I remember a similar complaint from my parents after I left home in 1967. I’ve lately heard the same from friends whose kids have flown the nest, so I know we’re not alone here.

Our daughter is in Ecuador with her husband and our granddaughter, Lorianna, who’s now eight-months-old and, apparently, babbling to beat the band.

We’re still dealing with the immigration issues necessary to get them all here permanently as a family, but the pace is slow.

No, wait. “Slow” indicates movement. In (legal) immigration matters, the meaning of the word “slow” takes on a whole new dimension. The movement of glaciers, by comparison, would resemble a Formula 1 racecar at full throttle.

Still, our daughter and granddaughter will be here for several weeks later this year. It’ll have to do for the time being.

Our youngest has moved into an apartment and is currently pursuing an engineering degree. When he finishes that, he wants to join the Air Force and fly jets. Eye watering, stomach-churning jets with big engines that can rattle your fillings when they fly by.

I’m OK with that as long as he remembers that, in the ongoing battle between objects made of aluminum going hundreds of miles-an-hour and the ground going zero miles-an-hour, the ground has yet to lose.

Like I said, they’re all out of the house and on their own and that’s pretty much as it should be.

But here’s the thing I wanted to mention.

There are times when I’m up during the night – odd moments here and there – that I’ll wander down to their rooms. There, in the darkness and quiet, I’ll stand for a minute or two listening for the sounds I used to hear coming from those rooms.

I’ll listen for their voices, their movements, and even the music they played that I never quite liked or even understood.

I’ll close my eyes and remember the clothes on the floor, the overflowing trashcans, the glasses and plates on the desks, and all of the other things that made the rooms theirs.

Foolish thing to do, isn’t it? Maybe even a bit silly considering that I’ve been around the block a time or two. Spent more than thirty years in a uniform. Been to one war and sailed six of the world’s oceans. And, far too often – according to my wife – I seem possessed of the sensitivity and subtlety of a frozen boulder.

Still, there are these nights – nights when I’ll find myself standing outside their empty rooms trying to conjure up memories.

I keep telling myself that I’m too old for this kind of thing and that I really should stop.

I will eventually but, you know what? Not just yet.

Nope. Not just yet.

Larry Simoneaux lives in Edmonds. Comments can be sent to larrysim@att.net.