We hung our coats, kicked off the shoes. The two of us heading for quiet. And it would be, with the three others gone for two nights.
The cold front had come, covered the moon, enveloped the sky, and sifted down snow.
The wool and the quilt and the cabin were warm. A clock ticked somewhere. The smell of coffee hung deep and rich.
And we were awkward in the hush. How does one go about this, exactly, this quiet?
Or maybe we'd never really known, so set to motion as we are by the tolling of the forever-list, the bong of those perpetual bells reminding us of all there is to do.
But there the Quiet stood, gentle and sure, gradually untying the laced-up-tight and loosening the do this-and this-and this. Unchained time made room for the sway of conversation, for the slow, for the unfolding of the days. And somehow, in the middle of the hush, a knowing came, sparking a glimmer in the eye and a nod to the understood:
We cannot quiet do; we must quiet be.