She turns to me. “I remember some days, some days hot and sticky, so sweet like peach juice, hot sun, broke asphalt.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She has no answer.
She has no answer to so many of my questions, can she see the shape of this cloud? So soft like a lamb, baby breath, the scent of hay, soft coat with mud sticking to its small hooves.
I don’t ask her if she sees it because I know the answer.
We don’t talk about clouds anymore or the pairing of the apples in a field, how did they get there? We’ve never had an answer for the bright red apples in cartons, cartons, do they call them bushels when there are lots?
Bushels of apples, that sounds strange.
She is staring out and I don’t know at where or what or who. She has never spoken all that much, but never this little either.
I used to fill our voids with chatter but I’ve come to speak to the silence.
I hold conversations with nothing, no one.
How can you expect response from that which isn’t there?
There is an art to asking questions and not expecting answers.
I wonder if she appreciates that aspect of me?
She is wearing a purple dress, long, silk, it clings to her, to her stomach, her thighs.
She is sweating.
I can smell her soft scent; earth, lavender, perspiration.
I do not find it comforting,
simply normal, as if spending long hours together, bound by something invisible, something I’ve
come to doubt is real, no words shared, just statements and the occasional unanswered questions, is normal, roundabout, a procedure of the day.
Maybe it is.
I am still wondering about the painting, apples in a wheat field.
Maybe her thoughts have found her way to them too.
No, her thoughts are elsewhere.
But mine aren’t, mine have never been anywhere else but here.
Apples in a wheat field, the lamb shaped clouds, anywhere but here.