Silence

Silence

Is like an orphanage

For words,

All the words

That could have been spoken,

But were never chosen.

Silence
Is the distance
Between the steady tree
And the twinkling leaves
That are not coming back
In the spring.

Silence

Is the space
Between the falling star
And the farthest planet
Unseen.

Silence

Is watching the blue sea

Become purple sky.

Silence
Is falling asleep,
While talking
Laughing,
And running around,
Alive.

Silence

Is pretending

The day is already gone,
At dawn.

Silence
Is the song of an yesterday
For which tomorrow will never come.

Modelul

Parchez si opresc masina.  La parc.  Cu grija, pun cheile si telefonul in buzunarul jachetei de blugi si ma uit, instinctiv, la cer.  Albastru linistit, cu nori lenticulari, pasari plutind in vant.  Acelasi vant care se joaca in parc, inconjurand copiii, razand, ciufulindu-le parul, si dansand cu rochita frumoasa a unei fetite, pe un cantecel vesel.  Nescris inca.

Stau pe o banca verde, sunt mai banala decat banal, necunoscuta confortabila.  O bunica slabuta si micuta de statura se aseaza langa mine, si isi scoate tricotajul dintr-o sacosa inflorata.  Zambesc; si mie imi place sa tricotez.  Dupa ce ma priveste in treacat, ca sa se convinga ca nu ma cunoaste de undeva, incepe sa-mi povesteasca.

- Ce bate vantul azi, insa Tuesday Morning (magazin) are niste roluri de tricotat foarte dragute, la reducere de pret, stii. 
- Copiii mei sunt departe, amandoi avocati, sunt bine acolo unde sunt ei, fericiti, au viata lor.  Le-am cumparat un set de cratite de bucatarie la nunta, ah, acum zece ani, si ma crezi ca nu i-am vazut sa le fi folosit vreodata?  Stii cum este...  Mai tarziu mi-au spus ca folosesc setul acela la un apartament la ocean.  Ei sunt proprietarii, l-au primit de la socrii.  Avocati si ei.

Vantul se joaca cu parul meu.

Cuvintele bunicii micute imi par ca un planset surd, ca niste semne de intrebare care se sparg in aerul subtire, fara raspuns.  Zambesc din nou, dar bunica nu raspunde.  Ma intreb daca stie ca sunt inca aici.

Vantul stie cu siguranta.  Ezita pentru o secunda, ca si cand ne-ar asculta, apoi incepe sa danseze cu parul meu din nou.

Bunica decide ca fularul pe care il tricoteaza nu este il cum vrea, este prea lat, asa ca il desira si isi planifica sa inceapa din nou, cand va ajunge acasa. 

- Firul acesta, spune, mangaindu-l cu grija, l-am desirat de zece ori!  Iti vine sa crezi?  ma intreaba, privindu-ma in ochi pentru prima oara.  Zambesc si, in sfarsit, zambeste si ea.

Vantul canta melodia fetitei cu rochita care danseaza in soare.

Iar eu raspund:
- Modelul este inca frumos.

The Pattern

I park and stop the car.  At the park.  I carefully place the keys and the phone in my jean jacket pocket and instinctively look at the sky.  Serene blue with lenticular clouds, birds soaring in the wind.  The same wind playing at the park, surrounding the children, laughing, ruffling their hair, and making a little girl's pretty dress dance on a joyful song.  Unwritten yet.

I sit on a green bench, looking more average than average, the comfy stranger.  A thin, petite grandma sits next to me, and takes her knitting out of a flowery bag.  I smile, I like knitting too.  And, as she glances at me to reassure the perfect stranger-ness in me, she starts talking.  "So windy today, but Tuesday Morning has some pretty yarn on sale, you know."  "My children are far away, both lawyers, they are doing good where they are, happy, they have their life.  I bought them an expensive cooking set of pots and pans, for their wedding, oh, ten years ago, and would you believe it, I never saw them using it?  You know how it goes...  Later I found out the pots were being used at their condo on the beach.  They own it, from their in-laws.  Lawyers as well."

The wind is playing with my hair.

The little grandma's words sound like crying, like question marks popping up in the thin air, unanswered.  I smile again, but she never smiles back.  I wonder if she knows I'm still here.

The wind knows for sure.  It hesitates for a second as if listening, then starts dancing with my hair some more.

She decides the scarf she was knitting is no good, it's too wide, so she unravels it and plans to start over when she gets home.  "This yarn", she says, touching it gently "has been unravelled about ten times!  Would you believe it?" she says, looking at me for the first time.  I smile and she finally smiles back.
The wind is playing the song of the little girl's dress dancing in the sun.

"The pattern is still beautiful", I answer.