A book and a bowl of cereal lay open and empty on the table in front of me. They aren’t in a hurry to be cleared away and I’m not in a hurry to clear them. Perhaps I’ll go back to one or the other, or perhaps not. One can’t be sure of anything on a gloomy Tuesday like this.
There’s a cabinet open in the kitchen; I must have forgotten to close it in my haste to grab a cup and water the drying soil of my cacti. They reside in tiny colored pots on the windowsill, their tiny colored bulbs reaching out at odd angles, toward each other and away.
There are no sounds. Not a single one, save for the purring of the air filter sucking white tufts of fur into itself. The source of the fur lies beneath my feet, his paws tucked beneath him, long ears drooping to the sides, calm. He’s silent, and motionless except for his tiny nose that never ceases its wiggling. I wonder if he feels the comfortable weight of the silence like I do.
Outside on the balcony, the windchime twirls in slow motion, caught in the echo of a breeze. Seahorses and shells revolve around starfish, never touching, never making a sound. I study the plants, searching for movement within their leaves and petals, but there is none. The chime has ceased its rotation, and nothing seems to breathe in the stillness. I check the tree branches, but they and their inhabitants are still as well. There is no breeze to blow your name from my thoughts, and even if there were, it couldn’t touch me where I sit.