When I was a kid, and none of my friends remembered to phone, I listened to silence.
When I was a young mother and never had a second to myself, I longed for silence.
When I became a writer and my words waited for readers, I breathed the silence.
When my girls left home and there was no answer on Skype, the ringing became silence.
When I stood on the edge of the Grand Canyon, I lived God’s silence.
When I sat in the last hospital rooms, the pings of monitors announced the silence.
When the marriages became babies, and the babies became children, and the children rested their heads on my shoulders, the moments scattered like the silence of soap bubbles.
Sights and sounds and touches and smells and the taste of life living.