I am walking slowly around my apartment, picking things up, putting them away, placing dishes in the sink, picking up the sheets left here, the tea pot by the bed, I am walking quietly so as not to disturb the particular silence that permeates the air. It is a very pregnant silence, a thick silence, the silence after laughter, and good conversation, and joyful touching. The silence that follows when delicious moments like these are released with an I’m sorry. When people who like each other can’t do it, when it isn’t right, there is a deadening silence to it. It is not boisterous like an argument or shallow like a fickle change of mood, it is…resigned.
I’m going to be very honest, it pulls all my triggers. The echoes of past relationships forgone fill the air too. The question failure? lingers in the back of my throat. Did I bring this on? Is it something about me? Humbly, I have no answers to these questions except for I hope not, and all I can do is try.
Peace and understanding are here too, they sit silently next to the resignation and the feeling of aloneness. Together the four sit in a row, legs crossed, slightly apologetic eyes on me, watching me put things back together in a painfully mundane way… as though they are family in a waiting room at the hospital or the dentist’s office. They watch without judgment, just…patience, and silence.