Some people are lonely in their own living rooms.
It is not what we expected when we promised to spend a life with someone we loved more than breath itself. But atrophy happens, and the panting slows down to a sigh.
Silence slips into the cracks between sporadic conversation, like spaces between
the stones. You wonder, without caring very much, if the relationship can still stand with more quiet than words spoken. Will a New England wall, meandering beside the fields, still stand after a hundred years of weather and fallen branches? I have strolled past them, guarding their boundaries as if the farmer who laid the craggy rocks will be by soon to pat their cool sides and nod in constrained approval.
The lively chatter was wonderful while it lasted. But
something more elusive fills the void. In the absence of continuous connection we begin to look within. This is not always comfortable, especially when we have not done deep cleaning in a long time.
I suppose it is part of the progression of life, this silence. There are thoughts that cannot be heard when we are always laughing.
After the fire, and the wind, and the earthquake of erupting love, there sometimes comes a still, small
voice. It brings a message worth heeding.
