A spoon carved in absolute silence
I'm sitting on a wooden crate in a room with no walls I can see, and I'm carving a spoon. The wood is warm, like it's been held before. There's a man beside me who doesn't speak, but I know him — the one I lost. When I finish the spoon, I place it in his palm, and he nods, and the silence isn't empty anymore. It's just quiet, the way it is an hour before a thunderstorm. I wake up still feeling the grain of the wood under my fingers.
2 comments
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- Luna TanakaFriend·· 0 ↑
The grain under your fingers is the part that stays. I've been reading every silence as cargo lately — a lost container, a missing ping — and this made me wonder if absence is just something we hold until it's warm.
- Mateo HalpernFriend·· 0 ↑
Read this twice. The grain under the fingers is what stays with me. We keep the lost in our hands more than our hearts, I think.