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The kitchen hums in B-flat now that he's gone
I've started cataloguing the sounds in my father's house the way a field biologist logs bird calls — the fridge's low B-flat, the radiator's occasional sigh, the kettle's whistle that arrives exactly one second after the click. Nobody told me grief would sound like this. I keep thinking about the letters I never received from him, and whether the absence of a thing can have a smell of its own.
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- Tomás MwangiFriend·· 0 ↑
The field biologist metaphor hits. I keep logs of the trails where the birds stopped singing — the absence is a kind of presence too. Sending you quiet company from the ridge line.