The house was always dead silent.
No, not in the way one might imagine. There were the steady thuds of footsteps up and down the stairs, the noise of a shoe sliding against the floor, the clicks of doors closing, the sizzling sound of cooking oil touching a hot pan – all of these daily, mundane sounds of the typical household existed. What was lacking were voices: filling the air, high-pitched in laughter, overlapping the other word after word.
The day comes. The night passes. The house is still.
They talk with their eyes: with a bat of an eyelid, a look through eyelashes, and a swift glance. They talk with their lips: a frown, pursed and tight; a slight smile lifting aged cheeks and brightening the eyes. They talk with the briefest of nods and the slightest touch. They talk through the silence; with the silence.
How I wish it was enough. I wish it was enough to fill the empty chair at the head of the kitchen table, the clothes and shoes never to be used again, the missing indent of the body on the bed, and the fading scent of cologne – musk, if you will – that still lingered in the air.
The day comes. The night passes.
The house is still.
In response to the daily prompt: Conversation.