Five p.m.

The rays which stream through the shutter will be no longer remembered when the shutter is wholly removed.
***

Dearest, I am in such an ache of missing you. Am sitting on the porch. The chimes are particularly melodious now, both sets ringing in whole, continuous, insistent songs. There's a beautiful Indian lantern on the table, in which I'll light a candle for you after dark. But just now it's flickering anyway with the sun falling on it and reflecting from the moving chimes. Where are you, I wonder - what are you doing?

A cardinal is whistling wheat wheat wheat, louder now as I write about it. The bells have slowed some. Inside the door, a woman is singing a slow song on the radio. I am a little cold in my fleece but it's bearable with the sun on my face. There's a shooom of traffic of cars passing by on Route 9, far enough away to be a soothing backdrop. Not far from me - but not me, not this moment - people are going somewhere, to and from, up and down the road, on their way like pendulum swings, somewhere.

Now Radio Archaeology is coming on. (Coincidence - or what?) Raissa has a lovely voice - as do all the KZE DJ's - Creslyn, Audrey, Jerrice. I wonder about Raissa's lightly inflected accent - I can't place it. There's a musical lilt to her diction, end consonants - vowels too - landed on, lingeringly.

This afternoon I took a leisurely stroll, entirely non-taxing, and passed by the house that I like, that speaks to me. For my own personal history, it's a timeless walk - reminiscent of Glenbrook, Darien, Noroton Heights when I was growing up. The house is set back far from the road and sits above the silver creek. A bench is placed there, so that someone can take a glass of something by one's self - or with dearest companion - and contemplate the water.

I envisioned us stepping from the house into the garden, heading to the bench to sit together. Good evening, darling. You've been gone. Tell me about your day.