(no subject)
no sound in the house. a silence maintained by force. shut door, cat curled in the closet, fifteen unplugged appliances. a silence interrupted only by the most basic of daily noises: neighbor coughing, mouse scratching, trapped behind the bedroom wall. the heater clicks on, releases three puffs of steam. seventy-five, eighty degrees. when i sweat, it makes no sound which is the same as when i breathe. face pressed against a window pane. looking outside, not in. the wind picks up, streams in through the cracks in the insulation. a whistling, high pitched. i don’t hear it. i can wish anything into being, even silence. the difference between silence and quiet is only a matter of appearance, personal demeanor. when someone knocks at the door, i don’t jump up, run down the hall, turn the knob who’s there? nor do i feel any sort of excitement when the phone rings. a call from the pharmacy, most likely; my sister with news of the baby. no, the phone won’t ring at all, unplugged, cord swining. a knock at the door: i don’t have to move unless i choose. i can sit here all afternoon, brushing my hair, smoothing out the wrinkles in my skirt with my bare hands.