There is an absence of quiet in the afternoon and slants of light break through the curtain, and I hear the sound of piano from the troubled rehearsal of voices from my neighbor’s yard, the rustling of the leaves of the tree in front of my window and this anxious thought that the man walking down the street might be someone I know, or used to know.
Because there is an absence of quiet in the afternoon– I search back all the ease of silences I may find in empty shoe boxes and in the smell of the old sweater I brought from home. I try to reread the letter I made to a friend who died, and I find myself deceived by how little I know. How little I know of him.
When there is an absence of quiet in the afternoon, the hems of the curtain move hysterically, murdered by the daylight. When there is an absence of quiet in the afternoon the voices of the choir become more and more unknown to the sound of the piano, and I to myself.
For Augus, never failing to make me laugh
