I can hear the washing machine running above me, slowly cleaning a batch of towels. It cycles over and over, spinning each towel. In front of me I see discarded toys from the day. An everlasting legacy of the children that run around under the roof of my home.
There’s small Lego pieces on the floor, a discarded shoe. All of it hovering close to larger pieces of furniture. My breath comes in soft whispers and I feel the warmth of my body sink into the couch cushions. The TV is dark beside me. A truck rumbles on the highway, down shifting as a light turns yellow.
The night presses in, waiting. I can finally hear the kitchen clock ticking. It hangs over our kitchen, face largely declaring the hour of night I find myself sitting in. Water runs through the refrigerator, mechanical whirring, echoes off the wood-paneled floor.
This is my silence.
A night crawling neighbor bangs open his garbage can lid, making my ears twitch. Floor boards shift above me as the house settles in the freezing winter night. All I can do is listen. My ears prickle with air as a silent symphony of night plays on. It surrounds me with a multitudinous rendition of the galaxy at large.
I tuck my mortal frame beneath a warm, fuzzy blanket and set my laptop upon a pillow. A L shaped piece of hard plastic holds the laptop away from my legs, giving it room to breath.
It is time, I say in my head. Feeling a dozen thoughts toss themselves round my synapses. The screen almost blinds me as I flip the computer open, sign in and throw my finger tips onto ten different keys.
It is time to write, I say again, breathing in hope and exhaling my doubt.
Write . . . in the silence of the night.