On a Sunday morning several weeks ago, my friend and I sat on a bench together. We hadn’t planned to idle here; although, does anyone set out with the intention of sitting on a bench? Perhaps, the seat’s appeal is its spontaneous invitation.
This particular bench was built on a high riverbank, adjacent to the woodland path he and I had been wandering down. Despite the pleasantness of our hike and conversation, the bench said to us, “Ok, change of plans.” And so, we abandoned our game of steps.
On that bench, the boy and I breathed the crisp air and watched the lazy water slink by. My face was flushed from walking, cheeks nearly tingling with the joy of being outside. Morning light saturated the forest around us, and I asked myself, why I don’t do this more often? The answer: because…real life. These days, the word “Sunday,” practically translates into: “Bunker down and do your work.” That translation felt looser today, though. It was diluted by sunlight. I hadn’t even noticed how quiet it was, until my friend spoke.
“What is your relationship with Silence?” he asked, without a hint of satire.
The question startled me.
“Uhhh––I––,” I paused, searching. I thought about us sitting here with the trees, in a moment when nothing was being asked of us. It felt so crystalized, so removed from the haze of work and routine. I thought about how it really wasn’t silent at all. At least, nothing was absent.
“Amicable,” I said. The answer wasn’t completely right. But it was good enough for now.
My friend leaned back slightly, taking in my answer with his body. The first paper leaves of autumn rustled above, not quite ready to make their descent. Not quite ready to surrender their view.
“Me too,” he said. And our third companion, Silence, smiled.
Last Thursday night, I found myself sitting outside again. I was no longer perched on a sun-dappled bench, but lounged cross-legged in a moon-washed meadow. I wore the same jacket, but this time, I wished it was warmer.
Two (different) friends and I sat among the tall grasses, which swayed softly around us. They were not chirping with crickets; I guess the cold had already settled in among the dying golden rod. The full moon was a flashlight, held by some far-away person who had lost their keys in the dark parking lot of Earth. Under its beam, we drank red wine and ate orange Cheez-its.
The three of us were practicing honesty. We discussed highs and hows of the week, reaching back to collect the moments we had earlier cast aside. We asked each other questions of love and life, and we pretended to answer––although the questions didn’t need answers for company. They were enough, themselves.
When the empty wine bottle looked up at us from the grass, when the cold began to infiltrate our layers, when our legs became stiff from sitting, I suggested we head back. Sure, but after we look at the moon.
Laying down on our backs, side-by-side, conversation dissolved. All was quiet. Until I heard him crying.
His breath was soft and heavy, flowing through his body like gentle ocean waves. It was not the breath of someone hurting, but someone living––full of an unapologetic humanness.
He cried and no one turned to look, no one made to get up, no one shifted uneasily, no one reached out a hand, no one joined him, no one wanted him to stop, and no one could love him more.
“What is your relationship with silence?” I asked myself.
Sacred.
Quiet Histories 