Someday we will be sitting on our porch like they are. Your hand will be on my lap. We will both be staring forward. Then I will be looking at you. A sideways glance. What will we be talking about? We will be so tired from the day. You’ve slipped your shoes off at the heel. What will we talk about? Occasionally I will let out a chuckle and run a hand through my hair. You will take your hand back. You will join it with your other and lean forward firmly onto your knees. My book is dog-eared on the table between us. My glasses are tangled on the top of my head. More laughter and what are we talking about? Our hands are our own. Folded, holding each other, keeping each other busy. Do we talk about today? About yesterday? Tomorrow? Do we talk about the passing of time. I was I and you were you. Are we silent, then? Do we hear time pass? See it? If we knew true silence we would be like the porch itself – never speaking, always watching. Our silence is different. It creeps up our bedpost, fries itself on our pans, billows through the heating vents.
We brush our teeth with it.