At the house where it is always quarter of eight, the men don't say much anymore. They sit, sleep, laugh occasionally, but there is a noticeable silence. Maybe because we talk too often and too loudly for anyone to get a word in, Maybe because they are comfortable and well fed, Maybe because what they want to say is unsayable or impolite in front of a grandmother or to a grandmother, Maybe because they would rather be...
It is better than the time when there weren't any men, or the lack of them was an emptiness that could be felt for miles. As we prepare for the new void, an empty screaming silence that makes us hungry and lost, maybe the men are just practicing the newness or embracing the sadness with a tinge of excitement. It's the end and the beginning - again...
1 comment:
I think it's a combination of everything you listed above. Plus, a general summer weariness. Still, you're right. It's nice they're there. They're comforting in the way big trees and darkness are.
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