The quiet is loud

The view here is smaller, and I feel so far away from what I used to know. The cold settles on everything, making us stop. The quiet is loud. But we wait, and after a few long days the snow melts slowly, then almost all at once. Icicles disappear in a matter of hours. Water trickles down the street, that steady hopeful sound. I take careful walks, navigating around ice and slush. My eyes want to look up, to marvel at the houses, the trees, everything ready and brand new.

For something new

Finding boxes, filling boxes. Saying goodbye to favourite streets. Last walks, last meals. Planning out our remaining days over beer and cheeseburgers at the first restaurant we visited in town, so many years ago. It's quiet. The last of the sun fades through the gaps in the curtains. Old men sit chatting quietly, leaving long pauses in their conversation. A young couple is laughing together, leaning on the table with their elbows. It's an appropriate last visit. It's a good time to make plans for something new.

Quietest quiet

He guides me down narrow, leafy streets. Turn right, turn left, turn right, go straight. We drive through neighbourhoods I've never seen before. Small brick houses and tall, old trees and piles of yellow and orange leaves.

When the weather cools, I want distance, space, the quietest quiet. All the romantic things winter makes us feel. I want hot drinks, wool socks, silently falling snow piling into drifts. But most of all, I want room to understand the year, and how it's passing quicker than I can process it.

Low and lazy

The light starts late and fades early. It stretches low and lazy over the usual pathways. Children at play scream in the park. I find myself noting every shout and laugh, because soon it will all be over for another year. I have more patience for outdoor loudness, for the noise of motorcycles that roars over indoor conversation, than I did in the summer.

It seems my treetop view is changing every day. I've already begun to change for the cold weather, too. More baking, more staying in, more dog cuddles.

Drawing away

The cicadas are out, buzzing from the trees. An old man walks slowly in my direction, using his cane to sweep leaves and candy wrappers off the sidewalk and into the road. As long as his own path is clean, he has succeeded. I see him often but I never know whether to smile at him. Does he clear the sidewalk out of anger, or out of concern?

I make note of the trees, the green green leaves. The sunlight is thick and hot. In spite of these things, I know summer is fading. The heat is drawing away. I walk through the park, saying my fond farewells. I'm ready for something new.

For faraway friends

I press my hand to the stone and feel the warmth of the sun, remembered and stored as the light changes. Your day is ending as mine begins. I move on, examining the buildings and the trees. I think of pictures to show you, stories to tell you. I try and remember the flowers and their Latin names. Another language we can share, all these kilometres and hours apart. 

When the lights go out

You gather the candles close, opening books and pushing the radio aside. Through the open back door comes the sound of a nearby guitar. It's the only sound. You hear the squeaking of fingers on strings. As the sky grows darker, you see the stars, a full sky of them, and you begin to feel like you're in the country, all alone. After a while, you notice the guitar music has stopped. In the distance, thunder growls. And then you listen to the rain you can't see.