By Bobbi Sinha-Morey
The Hum of Silence
In the sweet idleness of my home, the hum of silence all around me, a pale scent of wood smoke is in the breeze outside my half open window while I sit by the hearth, awaiting my breakfast being cooked over the fire when the silence was broken by a squirrel chattering noisily down the bare limb of a birch tree. I thought of the rascal and the morning walk I always took, gathering rose hips plumping on a bush beside the trail, the thin cloud cover of the sky above me. When it begins to snow I write letters to my best friend in the glow of my lamp's candle flame with the only piece of jewelry I ever owned, an opal I wore on a choker round my neck handed down by my father, and it always reminded me of him. In my dreams when night cloaked me in I'd see a snowy owl in the early blue starlit heavens.
Stitching Our Memories Together
They lived behind us on the other side of the creek, separated from us by a tall mesh wire fence, their mobile home the same size as ours, two women living together, best friends; one with androgynous features, the other more feminine and a bit plump. The one with the tough stick figure loved to speak, her voice a loud one that could travel for miles, and me and my husband would talk to them from our backyard patio. Susan, a former police officer with smoker's breath, and Jill, a woman with pretty morning hair. Once in awhile I'd hear them bicker sweetly, and on cloudless days they'd let Susan's tiny dog Dolly roam. Today everything stood still as a summer afternoon and all felt slow as a lullaby; they were outside clustered in the inkwell of shade made by a beach umbrella and Susan was into her pastime of making drawings of animals like Dolly, gander, and herons in flight, purring a song while she let her muse flow. Their backyard scented by star jasmine, I could imagine being close friends with them, stitching our memories together.
Today I swap my backpack for a bicycle, hit the sidewalks, dirt paths, and back roads, take the ambient route to Azalea View; I am a free bird flying everywhere I choose, and each day's arc is a wing, an impulsive wish hurling across the sky; I am yards of blue satin, my heart forever alert to the rhythms of the clouds, and I pass by Virginia Woods Pond, the crystal pureness reflecting the early sunset and green willows beside the creek, my heart pounding like the pulse of some invisible drum, my spirit so wide awake; I take the next curve to Sycamore Trails that lead home, split a peach galette with my honey who'd been waiting patiently for me.