Quiet is the gift I found at the bottom of the abyss of despair.
Its only voice is “there is nothing wrong”. The chatter of plans gone wrong is silenced in that truth.
Who am I without the story of things gone wrong?
Woman in chair, puppy by her side, the rain on the window, the rustle of my husband’s newspaper, all is happening in quiet perfection.
My hands still above the keyboard, waiting for the next impulse.
The rumble of lorries at the sawmill, emerges from the quiet, dissolves back into it.
My mind has stopped clinging, stopped grasping, for now.
My hand moves to scratch my chin, out of the corner of my eye, my husband lifts his teacup to his lips, a flash of colour.
The tick of the clock, raindrops.