Silence

She texted and asked me to write something about silence--the silence that brings unexpected fear when you go out your front door for a walk under gray skies and there are no people anywhere--the silence that you hear when no cars or trucks drive past--the silence that is so all-encompassing that you jump when your tennis shoe lands on a small paper wrapper---the silence that you taste like half a teaspoon of balsamic vinegar--the silence that makes your nostrils asked to be rubbed--the silence that you feel deep in your soul.

The silence that makes you shudder when a bird flies low and lands in a tree branch just beginning to develop its leaves while its tune hints of promise.

Please, Sis, write it for us and send it so we can save it for when our neighbors are free to come running across the street to give us hugs--for when cars are so plentiful in front of our house we shake our heads in wonder--for when our large family flood the town park for a summer picnic--for when laughter fills our home after another mistake in Mahjong is made. Something I have never done of course.

For the time when Kay and I once again crave an hour of silence after all the kids leave with their Easter basket in their hand, their sticky fingers having left their mark on the fabric of the dining room chairs.


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