Silence

Of all things that a two-year old is, silent is not one of them. After Lizzy died, I could not fathom the silence. It was ringing, deafening, inescapable. I could not understand what our lives were composed of without Lizzy chattering away, getting into everything, and busily exploring her world. What was life without this radiant little person filling up every available space with light?

I encounter this silence still, at night, on my walks, in the dew-coated morning. I encounter silence because Cecilia sleeps. And when Cecilia sleeps, the silence is there, evanescent and mournful. I cannot escape its emptiness. I cannot cope with the absence of Lizzy playing nearby or holding my hand and exclaiming at the black squirrel we encounter on our path. Her absence is deafening, unavoidable. Her absence fills the silence, quaking.

I stand, drifting. And with every breath I take, I want to give up and give in to the silence, to acknowledge its grim victory and say, “Yes, you are right. You have won because she is gone. Now, I must go too.”

I breathe, and pause. Cecilia stirs against my chest, my palm grazing her back, feeling her feathery lungs fill and empty, fill and empty. “But she is still here,” I say to the silence.

A bird starts to chirp nearby. I resume walking.