The Silence Between

Wafting scents of thyme and rosemary fill the house, oranges rest in a cut class crystal bowl, boughs of cedar evergreens drape over windows and mantels, we open our doors to the tenth Thanksgiving without Justin.

A wee fairy princess in a navy blue tulle skirt walks through our door and runs straight past me to Grandpa. A beautiful young couple come in from the nippy November air and shed their coats in that delightful confusion of greetings and shepherds barking. Contentment, there is nothing that I would add to these moments, no desire to be anywhere else, no thought of what is next.

I feel rusty in my planning, I forgot to warm the rolls that were fresh baked early in the morning. But the gravy is other worldly and piping hot, so the rest can be forgiven.

Conversation ebbs and flows with space in between the themes. They are comfortable pauses, a pause like waiting for the next movement of music in a symphony. The measure of those pauses lingered, silent whispered notes, I wondered at their presence.

Small hands wield a pastry brush like a seasoned pro, cream was brushed onto the round cherry hand pies and sprinkled with sparkling sugar with casual confidence. Pies are a serious business around here. We slide them onto the heated oven stone to bake.

Apple, cherry, and pumpkin pies headline dessert as the aroma of coffee tickles the nose. I am aware of those pauses again, my head wants to tilt to hear what the silent notes would say.

Small one bundled up for the long ride home, quick hugs at the door as all that is precious in our world start for home. We fall into the rhythm of washing dishes and corralling the shepherd puppy who thinks his name is “drop it” and “off.” My ears still strain to catch the unfinished melody that lingers at the table.

And then my heart hears it, those intermissions were when we waited for the one who is no longer here to speak, to laugh, to add his memories of past Thanksgivings. In the score of our lives, there is a voice missing, a lilting silver flute that has gone silent.

Yet, there exists a lush underscore of music that surrounds our table, vibrant, rich in deep strings, an unfinished symphony that continues to write with resonating notes of strength, and poignant longing. The music has not stopped, notes spill onto the empty staff creating melodies precious and rare, for pain writes the most exquisite songs.

Justin is not forgotten, his flute rests silent, but he is part of us, we carry his memory, it swirls and dances, it raises its eyebrows, it smiles, a rare soul his.

Sequestering the pies away from curious cats, I am reluctant to have the day draw to a close. I was anticipating the day like one who waits for their favorite note in an opera aria, and how the moment of perfection is never long enough when the note is hit pure and strong, your heart catches and and time stops as the music hangs in the air, and then you exhale.

Turning the lights out in the dining room, I still hear the silence between, expectant and wistful.