Silence is the language of the beginning of a song, before it rushes out of my throat, before the sustain pedal clicks, when I hold an intruding melody to my chest for the first time.
Silence is also the language of the end of a song, when I’ve emptied my heart.
It’s the missing word for what’s missing at the end of a performance, when the seats are left empty and there are no more words and whispers.
It’s the final tune that follows me into sleep, and vanishes at the sound of my voice the morning after.
There is the silence of a winter’s afternoon, falling in the darkness of the house, which I have just broken with a single note.
It’s the sound of the track down the road from here, before there’s a train.
And then there’s your silence, which I think of as the love letters you will never send me.
Who brings the silence? What for? It is always perched on the branch of my voice. If I only knew where it came from.
“He leads me beside quiet waters.” — Psalm 23:2