I place my phone, keys and charger on the small table you put next to my bed—the bed you made. I get undressed and climb under the sheets, turning the lights off before I slide in. I have come for a week: the week of Easter. I have no plans, and the future is an echo.

The days pass in silence, the three of us alone for the while. I walk out to see the nature, watch the birds. I breathe it in, and think, I might just be here. The sunshine is there upon the leaves.

I blink. The crowd arrives. I see those familiar faces, the echoes of the past, speaking to happiness that I can lick with the tip of my tongue beneath the fog. There is light and noise all round. We go to church, bless the sunlit day. On the way back, he says:

‘Christ has arisen! Truly arisen! Hallelujah!’

We eat breakfast, then dinner, and talk all about. I look out the window to find the chirping birds. One has grass in her beak, off to make a nest.

I blink. I hug my Dad, he is on his way back. One aunt wants to set off back home to the other side of the country, the other follows her not so far away. We stand on the porch, ready to wave them goodbye. As they usher down the stairs, I show you a bird atop a tree. It’s a tit with a black cap, but I’m not sure which one. All the cars empty from the lawn and out the front gate. The explosion is neat, and we are back alone. 

After my walk in the woods, I listen to the world. It has begun to whisper, and I can hear it loudly. It’s the refrain to this home’s song. I’ve heard it some times now, but I still don’t know the words.

I sit down to write. I pick up my pen, and begin to write the song. My black lines mark the empty space I am carving out of the page. I notice that there is only the past, and the future. The present is not there.

The future is what waits for me any time I come here. I used to have some happiness here, but I’ve left that in the past. Now, there is only the future. Its silence is what I can taste in the air.

I finish writing the song, always incomplete. I put my pen to rest, arise. I go to tidy up my things. I hear the wall clock ticking as I pack away my clothes. I place my phone, keys and charger on the small table again, ready to find them before I leave tomorrow morning.

I walk away, listen. There is the clock, and the silence. It is premature. It shouldn’t be here yet. But there is no present. It sings from the future, and I hear its song.

I walk through the empty kitchen, then find you in your bedroom. You are busy on your phone, the light shining onto your wrinkled face.

‘It was a coal tit,’ I tell you, and you look at me.

1.IV.2024