sjsprWriting

I’m not a person of many words.

He’d laugh, rocking to and fro in his chair. I’d chuckle faintly, and look at the prairie in front of us. He’d always remind me that he wasn’t one to talk much as if to keep me from interrupting that wonderful silence.

We were dipped in serenity, and it would’ve been a shame to jump out of it.

The next day, it would be the same.

I’m not a person of many words.

I had gotten so used to this customary remark that I would never ask if something was on his mind.

But I remember a moment when I simply couldn’t take it. The silence was not as blissful as before.

It was loud. It was obnoxious. It was uncomfortable.

The squeaking of his chair only made me cringe. The air felt heavy with the expectation of those accursed words. Before he could even open his mouth, I turned to him. “I know,” I said as expressly as I could manage.

The squeaking ceased entirely. His face slowly turned in my direction. He seemed bewildered – frightened, even. I watched him carefully, not sure of what to expect. Strangely, he nodded, his once tense visage softening up into an indistinct smile.

“It’s been a long time.”