Janet Chevalier
February 3, 2024
Silence is not silent
I walk 1/8ᵗʰ of a mile down the lane from the farmhouse. The moon is full, silvery and frozen. The
man’s face is quite distinct tonight. His mouth open in a silent scream. He looks at me for help
but I can offer none. I tell him he is handsome and not to despair – he has the stars for company.
In contrast to the moon, the stars look bright and shiny and close to the earth, like diamonds on
black velvet. I don’t even like diamonds – I wonder why I like the stars. Perhaps they are the
shining souls of those who went before. I shall call them The Ancestors; therefore, the moon must
be The Guardian. No wonder he screams. Guarding all those ancestors is a huge and thankless task.
Not one of them will agree with the other or want the same thing. Serves him right for being so
remote. If he were closer, I could help. I will send him kind thoughts.
The snow crunches beneath my feet. I reach the slough at the end of the lane. The slough is covered
with glittering snow. I thank The Ancestors for sending those crystals. The birch trees surrounding
the slough look like apparitions with white trunks and limbs. It is pitch dark out here even though
the farm light and the house lights provide a warm yellow glow behind my back. I listen to the
silence. How do you do that? The silence is deafening it is so loud. What do you mean? Can’t you
hear it? The White Noise? The Test Pattern? I need to name the silence something more picturesque
that that. The silence sounds like a symphony and the moon conducting Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
The birch trees and I are the audience and we are joined by the deer on the other side of the
slough. The trees raise their branches in admiration and the deer have raised their heads with
their ears flicked forward in admiration. The moon is no longer screaming. The Ancestors are
captivated and the Guardian, the moon, now thinks he is Pavarotti singing Nessun Dorma.
I walk home amid this splendour on this brilliantly cold, indigo night.
