A knock on his door

for the first time in years

Centuries, maybe

It echoes on walls and countertops,

On hardwood floor and dust-blanketed piano.

Should he answer it—could he?

The dust motes through sunbeams might be disturbed

by the air currents’ change

if he opens the door,

And they are his company

Friendly

And quiet.

Again the sharp rap

Silence and illusion shattered

Determined impatience

has entered the room.

Perhaps if he invites it, it will come in 

quietly.

Good afternoon sir,

Can I interest you

in some cookies?

It will help me buy new strings

for my guitar—

they are broken.

He rummages in his pocket—

Chocolate chip 

Or oatmeal raisin?

Pulls out the slips of paper and takes

A box of each

Your window is pretty

the child says.

The dust motes still linger there

floating

forlorn. 

It reminds me 

of a song I know about the sun,

Daddy plays it on the piano.

The motes could be notes

nature’s quiet chords.

Thank you sir, have

a nice day.

The door closes

on impatience and forward motion

the air, still again,

returns to quiet.

The motes fill the air like

a song about the sun

the wind and the rain.

With a small paring knife he slits

a box open and lifts a cookie

to his lips

Its crunch is a rhythm

Thump thump thump

No—

it’s another knock on the door

he supposes

again he should answer it.

A sigh

the soft thud

of cardboard boxes on granite countertops

the gentle creak of hinges moving

quietly.

Excuse me, sir, I’m sorry

to bother you again

but may I use your phone?

It’s begun to rain.

He supposes he must assent

and perhaps welcoming in the noise

will allow it to pass quickly back into

quiet.

A call made from the kitchen,

and nothing to do

but wait

for the arrival of a parent.

Fifteen minutes, that’s all.

Springs of chair and couch squeak a quiet

protest

under the weight of

bodies.

I like your piano.

Do you play?

Do you know

the song about the sun?

The motes dance on the piano

to the silent ghost

of its music.

He clears his throat—

No, he answers—

Not anymore.

The air grows heavy

with disappointment

with untold stories.

Oh.

The quiet returns

Charged, this time, because of the

unfamiliar presence

of the child.

Little legs that

barely touch the floor

sneakers that cannot scuff the wood.

He offers the child a cookie.

Thank you.

The rhythmic crunch

fills the quiet.

When the cookie is finished

the child rises

carving a path through

the dust motes

drawn toward the piano like a dog to a

whistle.

A hand

reaching out

hovering over the slumbering keys

Almost touching—

almost touching…

The blare of a horn,

shrill, deafening.

My mother is here.

Thank you,

sir,

I hope you have

a nice day.

The door shuts once more

The footsteps fade,

the dust motes settle

The quiet returns.

It penetrates and pierces

Announcing with gusto

the departure of the noise, but now it seems

somehow

the quiet no longer belongs.

He couldn’t say why,

but that the dust motes no longer seem to want to dance

They too have grown tired

are not long for this world

subsisting only on memories which

aren’t enough to feed them.

The quiet is hungry now.

Demanding the sustenance

of one memory: the

song about the sun

that used to fill the room with the window

when his father was here

and the wind and the rain

when his father’s piano

danced with his son’s guitar,

and the motes danced too, while the notes,

the notes he had given away

to his father

and his son

to be carried across time

lingered,

floating.

Perhaps,

perhaps,

one of them might float back to him.

Or maybe two of them

to keep each other company.

His hand hovers, almost touching

—almost touching—

the notes lie in wait—

anticipating a memory that is no more

locked away 

dancing in its cell

to a song about the sun.