Now, we have found ourselves falling into a silence only familiar with those accustomed to their new homes in graves. Only if the sun rises at a particular angle does the bed, ever so slightly, warm up a bit. I don’t often open the blinds. There is nothing beyond the window worth looking out at, outside of the occasional bird that will fly from one streetlamp to the next, or a small herd of bunnies that end up traversing from the parking lot to the grassy hill by the highway. I almost pray for the sound of a car crash so that there might be something worth leaving this bed. I wish to be with my grandmother more than anything these days; to have her touch my hand once more so I can engrave each wrinkle and the shape of her calluses along her palm, to speak three words at a time again and to hear the different intonations she uses when she calls my name. I pray and my right hand still reaches upwards; my beliefs are closer in proximity to the bottom of the ocean, but I still scream, pretending I still believe that there is something left above. My spit serves as my bread and wine. A body consumes a body. Amen. The silence returns once more. I no longer fear being alone. Peace is abstract. It does not exist in the end, nor at the start.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Lhar Capili on Unsplash