I remember silence: sent to my room for misdeeds as a child; college dorm, desk piled with books; worlds outside a window where voices played; nursery dreaming, sleeping breaths; a house filled with chores and meals to be made; feet that clatter, chattering voices that vanish out the door; pattering paws that patter here no more.
I remember silence’s old acquaintanceship. And when the furnace roars, and squirrels skip and jest across the yard, I wish my Meg were here to pester me.
I’ve put away the water-dish, the dog-bed, cleaned the paw-prints where she fed…
And I've remembered silence.