Here in the center of this silence, I fall apart. In my panic to hold it together, I leap from the edge of the precipice into the soundlessness and fall down howling in a stinging awareness of the endings of things. An eye of sorrow in the midst of all that hurricane of joy. There, in the center of this silence is not eternity but the death of time and loneliness so profound the word itself has no meaning. Loneliness assumes the absence of other people. I will cry then. One tear for each of the deaths of the little things...castaway shoes of children, a broken flower, prom photographs of people who have long died and that I never knew. A fly swatter, baby animals in the wild left orphaned and hungry children. Wedding rings in pawnshop windows, tiny bodies of Cornish hens sitting in a bed of seasoned rice, a scoop of ice-cream on the sidewalk at the feet of a child holding an empty cone. A dead Sparrow on your lawn, paper dolls with their heads ripped off, touching other peoples memories at a garage sale and not being able to hold Grandma's hand anymore.Teresa.
