She held her breath far longer than she meant to. There was order and a certain sense of peace, but the ground was shaky under her feet. Reaching out did no good…the branches tore at her dress and snagged her hair. In this case, a blue sky was no comfort, sunlight was harsh and glaring. The only thing to make it right was the cool evening wind, the kind to be lost in.
She learned to translate movement and expression into thought, broke through the noise of words…but lost the frantic tumble of syllables and sound that slide down ravines and tumble into your waiting hands.
Some words stay thick and others fall in rapid movements. There are ways to keep up. Words can hold our hands, walk right into our souls and set up shop.
Glances catch details, the little spoken or understood moments. Hems of long dresses touch a polished marble floor, stirring dust motes in the afternoon sun. A hand grips a telephone pole and twists around to gain balance, tightening. A plate shatters but only one piece does a graceful double-back flip. Only one snail ever crossed that path in that place, he is a snail celebrity in the snail world.
Her words are as powerful as the silence could be, if it was patient and waited for Sunday afternoons with tea and books by the fire. She has waited so long for those afternoons.