Here we are again. The
universal quiet of an empty house. I feel a cool hint of fall through the
window as summer begrudgingly stands down. In the midst of the drumming summer chaos,
I sometimes forget how much I like the sound of rustling leaves outside, the
hum of the insects, and yet the stillness, the softness, the stability. No
creaky stairs tonight. No running water. Just white sheets and dim light, and a
whining train somewhere nearby. I don't play any music. I think about the
predictability of change and all of its relentless irony, which I am reminded
of by the circle of rust that surrounds the shiny drain in the shower, or by
the changing leaves of golden yellows – catching the sun-kissed city by
surprise though the leaves are changing like they always do. We’re back, the
yellows say. Knock knock, purr the deep reds. They weren’t here just a week
or two before, so things are different – things have changed by definition –
yet what about this seasonal pattern makes fall less of an exciting transformation and more the underwhelming product of short-lived routine?
Here we are again.
I am locked inside the
quiet.
