Transitioning

The clock chimes its midnight number, though it is only ten.

Down the hill, trucks barrel down the highway – too loud, with their engine breaks hollering.

A baby whimpers, and a plane flies low overhead.

Then, in the briefest of silences, an owl sings out its lone ‘Hooo, hoo, hoo, hoo.’

In between the carefully worded emails and the anxious tears, there were Oreos.

They did nothing to pacify the soul, but did they stave off the tears for just a few moments?

Noises, all day long, leave little space for the soul to hear its own echo.

An echo to soothe like an infant hearing its mother’s heartbeat, ‘Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.’

The owl, again, through the static.

The soul, again, through the breath.