“Switch it off!”

“What?” (Not ‘what do I switch off’; rather: ‘what are you talking about’.)

“Shhh!” All five fingers of the right hand spread wide, the first touching the lips, the hand a stop sign, the fingers stretched rigid, the hand surprised, the fingers an echo of surprise. Meanwhile, with the left, she reached over and unplugged the radio.

“What th…”

“SH!”

As there was no wind, there was no sound. It was night. The stovetop light from the kitchen was a warm glow that filtered onto the porch, where they sat side by side, on the top step. She was looking for something in the darkness, but couldn’t see. She was listening: her face said “What?”

He spread his hands wide, shrugged to right and left, palms up. His face said “WHAT!”

From two, three lakes over, in the deeper darkness where no roads ran, where no houses were built and no lights lit, a single loon gave up its call, as though it were giving up its soul. Her fingers began to point, her hand reaching, her fingers grasping, her hand curling, as though to wrap her fingers around the sound. “It’s been years…”

Memory of her childhood cabin, she said. The whole family fishing late. The smell of dusk in the northern woods. Fresh-caught dinner around a fire. The cry of the loon. “Sorry,” she smiled and was his again. “You wouldn’t know unless you grew up there, then.”

But he knew. He watched her face in the kitchen light, as something rose up deep within her; it flashed like stars’ reflection in her eyes, and something rose up deep within him.

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