Sometimes Silence

The sound of silence lies in the shrouded corners and sunlit patches. Wind blown light dances with the potted plant, stoney walls and polished desk and rattles the roof, scattering leaves and nuts in a furious manner. My cat races to the rafters to inspect. His beady eyes and tilted head stare up at the ceiling as if the sound will come crashing in. Sometimes silence is noisy. 

I’m curled up in my bed with blankets and Coco dozes by my feet, keeping them warm for me. Sitting up only allows a small escape from the torrent of expectorating and catching for air. My thoughts are busy making connections and my hands restlessly play with my quilt. Speaking into the silence would only produce a small croak of sound so silent prayers repeat themselves as I wait. Shivers of a cool day run up and down my arms, my hairs standing on end. The faint smell of bleach and dust remind me of my days work. Sometimes silence is busy.

The rush of cars insist but the wind teases and stops and begins again. Like my heart over a sleepless night, racing, beating, hurrying inside my chest, then calming. When you stare up at the ceiling, wide awake, your thoughts rattling around, tossing to and fro, sleep eluding you, and then with that silent voice, you pray, and all is silent. Sometimes silence is silent.