early winter


It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you. It’s an issue of scarcity. I have run into a shortage of words.

When the phone rings now, there’s nothing but a chirping repetition in my mind. A mimicry of the noise I should be making when I am, instead, entirely composed of silence.

My late husband would tell people that silence was my love language, and they always, always thought he was making a joke. If there’s one thing people know about me, it is that I thrive in the chatter. In a den of din, I am all petal and bloom, all unfurled leaf and sturdy stem.

But I am rooted in silences, nourished in them. Right now, I am cut down to the nub. I quarantine-cut my blossoming down to earth and now most of me is buried beyond the sight of the sun and horizon.


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