By Pam Jasper
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I don't miss the silence; I never have. The colorless, odorless drift of nothingness has never been a favorite of mine.
I am breaking the silence. Even though I can not hear it or taste it, I can feel it. It feels much the same as a broken heart or an empty plate. Silence is too loud in my head to ever be ignored.
I bet you have been busy. Hammering away at the old wood stove or stoking smoldering baby diapers. Whatever the case, you have been busy as a mother should and I have been reminiscing as a woman my age tends to do on these long days and lonelier nights. I have understood busy. It is ingrained in me in as much as the rest of my generic influences. Busy mandates many things. It rids the air of silence at times but will the silence return?
There will be plenty of silence this week. The biggest influence of this silence is due to lack of anything better to spend life on. The funds are depleted and happily, we are poor church mice. Just think of what ardor a church mouse can afford: a sweet grass hat, a nutly mist of cologne and a perfect set of beady eyes with a string of tail to match. Amen.
If you are cautious, you may peek ever so slightly up into the rafters of my mind. I have been perched up high with Granny's old footlocker of memories. If you open the trunk, inside you will find some of the most warmest felt treasures. Remnants of days long past yet preserved in the elegance of ages by twisted knots and silk threads. Sachets can still fragrantly cloud the mind, as you lift out the old cotton gingham tablecloth that would cover the table on holidays.
Little Abe would sit and spill his grape juice. The stain would remain painted upon the tablecloth throughout decades, as if some great memorial tribute to royalty. I can still remember the laughter as we all set down and Grandpa would smoke his pipe and Aunt Elsie would fuss over her Mince Meat Pie as if it just might evaporate before being eaten. Aunt Elsie was a good lady. She never married, you know. She was a terrific cook and one would think that she would have snagged her a hungry man - but no. She was not homely or plain. In fact, she had a rather interesting face that seem to rosy her cheeks and her coal chip eyes with a darkened mystery uniquely her own. She sure was a classic in my book! I oft wondered if the reason she never married was because she never really needed anything more out of life. Her simpleness was complete, right down to the shawls she would knit and the tables scarves she would crochet for Granny. Here they are. Right here in the trunk beside the corn cob doll with the twisted ears. She was part of The Thanksgiving Centerpiece. I sort of miss those days, don't you?
The loft is damp with the mold set deep in the rafters. Let's climb down. I don't like staying here for very long. It brings back all the ghosts. They are here too, you know.
I like the openness of the field. It sings out a revelry to the sunshine. It houses a freeway of insects but in the fall, the grasses are tall and cool and this is where I prefer to be. Nestled within the tall grasses with my mind free as the air that breathes softly in the cool afternoon sun. Watching the cloud forms spiral there way against a darkening blue sky.
Every so often, a jet leaves a trail of memories behind like a draftsman skewing a line or two.
But here I am... not there and not anywhere but here at my keyboard. Silence becomes shattered with the arrival of a friend often in need. As I anticipate words of greeting, I realize I should post this before it gets buried in the gravity of the moment. A new moment has 'risen, when words will fill my head with different thoughts; entertaining thoughts for which I am often grateful.
Life is good. Friends are golden.
Riches are plenty! God Bless All.