Silence has a sound of its own:
the ticking of the second hand, the scratch ofa weary pencil,
the buzz and hum of appliances.
Across the seas people arewalking under a flood of sunlight.
My window is dark and reflects myface:
baggy, red eyes and crazy strands of hair standing, resting, interposedat random angles.
Cold tea at my elbow staining the mug and its pictures of asunny day.
Still I see no light.
Weary, beaten-down, my hands trudgethrough the pages.
A hand on my shoulder, a kind face beaming down.
Oneradiant smile, so many nights like this.
Saved by the mercy of aparent.
Coughing, choking, a tickle that relentlessly presses my achingthroat,
the arms outstretch and massage my shoulders
"I'll let yousleep late tomorrow, and drive you in."
A way out! Salvation found andhappiness recovered.
The face glows, hair shines, arms are rays ofsunlight.
My chest leaps, throwing the tickle, my rasping voice whispersgratitude,
arms hug the saint.
My parent leads me to bed.
It is stilldark, but the sun will shine in the morning.