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When the Night is Silent

We had stopped flinching when it got too quiet. We’d kept sprinting to the sound of no noise, and the kid was either playing with Legos or in the coat closet on his typewriter. And so last night when too little noise was happening, no one threw down the book he’d almost started reading and asked between gasps, “have you seen Silas?” We were too out of practice.

Which was why kneeling in pine needles to tuck our boy in last night seemed unexpected. Twenty pine fronds stuck out beneath his mattress and five thousand pine needles had been sprinkled over his carpet. “I just love the way it smells,” he said.


This morning our boy is vacuuming with the fattest smile. “Listen,” he says. He pushes the hose and it sucks up enough needles for a small tree. “That crackling sound. I just love that, too.”

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