And Silent Now
The flowers they have placed on the center table are not the roses I know they never knew I like and they’re flower-shop-bought. There was somebody texting. On her right a girl is introducing someone I never met. There was a joke about a grandmother I could barely hear and at least two people I don’t know aren’t drinking their juice. Bread is also served, and at the farthest back is a cheerful video chat between people inside this room and some family abroad. Someone with a yoyo stands in the doorway, which reminded me of my fantasy of witnessing a surgeon’s hand being massaged. This isn’t exactly the worst time to witness that.
Usually you’re supposed to hear something like, why, too soon, or they should’ve been there sooner, or how profligate was his fate, in a night like this, in a room like this. I’m pretty sure someone’s supposed to be not invited. But no, tonight you do not hear them and they’re here.
It is not a hopeful sight that all feel gray and silent now, which is slightly different from the previous nights. This is, I would say, fairly boring and unfortunately nothing like the noisy bar I felt myself walking double in. Nothing like the girl whose kiss I wet before she left and caused me to feel the last time what the thrill and fun of a toyed wrist was like. Nothing like the sight of leaving friends you bought drinks for and never knowing their names, not that you’d ever want to, but it wouldn’t hurt to be polite. Nothing like the sorry from a punching father I’m not exactly sure I’m owed and the We’re Proud of You I got tired of but is never the kind I’d wish a mother would say to me in bed.
My mother isn’t here. No screaming of whys, which tells big-time against the movies about this. It’s all just plain sitting, no reading of books I supposed would be apt for what I am forever going to miss, a sullen sky, crumpled invitation cards, paid flower deliveries of absent people I can’t exactly remember now where I met. Funny enough, on the top of the TV was no longer the usual remote controller. It was a coffee stirrer I used to scrape the grime off my sink with. Cleaning my sink was like playing the yoyo. And what I wouldn’t give to be able to do the cleaning again outside a rectangle glass box and gesticulate and pay at least myself respect.
Usually you’re supposed to hear something like, why, too soon, or they should’ve been there sooner, or how profligate was his fate, in a night like this, in a room like this. I’m pretty sure someone’s supposed to be not invited. But no, tonight you do not hear them and they’re here.
It is not a hopeful sight that all feel gray and silent now, which is slightly different from the previous nights. This is, I would say, fairly boring and unfortunately nothing like the noisy bar I felt myself walking double in. Nothing like the girl whose kiss I wet before she left and caused me to feel the last time what the thrill and fun of a toyed wrist was like. Nothing like the sight of leaving friends you bought drinks for and never knowing their names, not that you’d ever want to, but it wouldn’t hurt to be polite. Nothing like the sorry from a punching father I’m not exactly sure I’m owed and the We’re Proud of You I got tired of but is never the kind I’d wish a mother would say to me in bed.
My mother isn’t here. No screaming of whys, which tells big-time against the movies about this. It’s all just plain sitting, no reading of books I supposed would be apt for what I am forever going to miss, a sullen sky, crumpled invitation cards, paid flower deliveries of absent people I can’t exactly remember now where I met. Funny enough, on the top of the TV was no longer the usual remote controller. It was a coffee stirrer I used to scrape the grime off my sink with. Cleaning my sink was like playing the yoyo. And what I wouldn’t give to be able to do the cleaning again outside a rectangle glass box and gesticulate and pay at least myself respect.
Labels: James Salter, jessica zafra
