She pulled the blankets up over her head as she listenedto the wind chimes ringing from her porch. The thunderstorm outside her windowdisrupted the stillness of her old house. She wanted nothing but silence. Thiswas how she spent her hours. Waiting. Waiting for laughter to walk through thedoor. Waiting for six dancing little feet to come pounding up the stairs withtheir hands filled with papers from school.

The day he took them away, shesmashed all the radios in the house. If they came back, she wanted to be able tohear them. She felt her poodle, Sophie, change position on the worn calico quiltat the foot of her bed. In the past ten years, Sophie had begun to grow senile,or maybe the dog just knew better than to prance about and disturb the quiet. Nobarking, no panting.

Suddenly, the woman flung the covers off and flew outof bed. She headed for the stairs, and Sophie trailed after her in confusion. Shestormed out onto the porch, yanked the windchime off its hook, and sent itsoaring into the night. It clanged and clattered as it fell to the pavement in amillion pieces.

The thunder and lightning stopped. Soft dropletsof rain began to fall onto her face like tiny feathers, brushing the scars away.