Alone in a room with a warm, dim light. The TV was on for a while, a deep steady voice keeping company, but the time has passed. The mood has shifted. I'm ready to listen to my silence.
A fan kicks on, briefly. Not quite summer, but not autumn enough to entice me to give up the AC. Sometimes the air hits just right, the dry chill embraces like lake-water.
Textiles breathe in my hands. The pop of a needle through taut linen. The whisper of the thread's friction. Or some slight squeak of yarn as I pull through a loop on my hook. Aluminum, acrylic, and the sweat of my palms cannot help but release some small sound when they meet.
The gentle purr of my constant companion in my lap. Sometimes, she sniffles. I surprise her with a kiss to her furry forehead and she trills a "hello" as our eyes meet. Unconditional love.
Tiny, delightful bubbles fizz in my sparkling drink. Pillow cases and cool sheets rustle with every movement. A contented sigh escapes me as I bask in my living silence.
About the Creator
Rebekah Conard
33, She/Her, a big bi nerd
How do I write a bio that doesn't look like a dating profile? Anyway, my cat is my daughter, I crochet and cross stitch, and I can't ride a bike. Come take a peek in my brain-space, please and thanks.
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More stories from Rebekah Conard and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 10 hours ago in Poets
Comments (4)
Thank you for this piece. Beautiful imagery.
Great imagery!
Outstanding!!! Silence is always comforting!!! Subscribed!
Beautiful and very comfy