It’s a Thursday evening in August and
I sit by the kitchen window, letting in
the final remnants of the summertime sun,
the table dimly lit by a handmade candle
bought from the market in the center of town, just last fall,
the wax, now, almost entirely gone.
I shuffle through the familiar collection of records –
carefully crafted through the years, changing with its owners.
At this time of night, while looking through the crate that holds
various options for background noise,
I expect the right selection to play, repeatedly, in my head
before it spins on the turntable;
tonight, I can’t find an album to match a feeling I can’t explain
as I cook dinner for one and pour too much rosé,
the flame on the stove and the light in the refrigerator
serving as reminders of an absence
only visible to one, undeniable every time
the sun disappears behind the distant mountains.
A book rests on the wooden table by the window, barely
made visible by the flame of the candle, the words
neglected by their reader. Meanwhile,
I flip past Amy Winehouse and Norah Jones
and Bonnie Raitt and I try to ignore the recurring thought
that all I want to listen to is the sound of your voice.
My indecisiveness leaves me in silence.
Grace Holland, ’26