In the silence, as we wait to rejoin each other, as we touch reverently the objects that connect us to the dead, something is born. In the silence, where we no longer hear or see the beloved, where all the conversations we were given seem to have ended, we go on looking alone.
Whatever we learned from the other, we now must learn without the other. And what we knew as truth together, must be found again -- changed as light changes on water -- inside. Though the water is the same, the aspect is different. Though the conversation somewhere goes on, here it is unheard. Here is the bitter quiet.
The silence is necessary. It is part of the conversation, an ellipsis between words. It is a lesson in waiting, in uncertainty. A form of the truth only found in the absence of what we always counted on.
This one reminds me of my old poem, In Praise of Silence, that also has the necessity of silence, water images, and so on. I've been trying to make it into a song, with frustrating results. I might steal your idea that the conversation goes on somewhere, but not now, not here.
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