Brushing open the curtains in every room of the apartment, to let in portraits of the rainy neighborhood. Maple seed pods sprinkle reflective puddles, cling to wet driveways. The traffic on Larpenteur sprays past, its noise intermingled with the muffle of far-off thunder.

My building is the quiet of abandon, or sleep. Each object in my kitchen perfectly still: spoons tipped in last night’s ice cream bowls, hand-knit potholders, mugs hunkered down on shelves, weighty and tired.

And I, listening, waiting on the hem of Your voice, holding the silence before the sharp beauty of words.

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