Silence and Sanctuary

The big ole’ farmhouse is empty, devoid of intruders. Absent are the giggling children, the whining children, the rambunctious sounds of play. It’s almost completely silent, truly a rare, blissful moment that must be recorded. The television in the nearby room sits blankly, its screen reflecting only the windows across the way. The invasion of stimuli quelled with the push of a button. There is no radio, or radio announcers, and no music, just undisrupted repose, the exquisite rarity of the moment, memorably extraordinary.
In the adjoining room, wide wooden planks of a seemingly ancient ceiling fan spin slowly above a large oval oak dining room table. The cool, hard surface of the table contains scratches and even a few gouges from Thanksgivings and birthdays, quiet memories of other blissful times. A circular chrome tray sits at its center reflecting the turn of the fan above, which provides a cool and relaxing gentle breeze.
The serene air being pushed by the fan blades wafts across the room, delicately nudging the ivory colored sheer panels that cover the tall painted windows, so peaceful and quiet a motion. At the center of this room, at the center of this house, sits a woman who is the center of it all. Abstract oil paintings hang upon the surrounding walls waiting to be understood, to be noticed, not unlike the woman herself. One painted with rich colors of orange, yellow and white mixed together like a melting dreamsicle. Another with vibrant greens and splashed on cherry reds looks nothing like the holiday they represent. She sits, with her pen in hand, in a wobbly oak chair that has sat dozens before her. The undulating air causes the leaf of notebook paper she scribbles across to slightly lift at its corner in a waving motion with each rotation of the fan.
“Hello” it seems to say to the verdi-green metal floor lamp across the way, “We don’t need you yet.”
Light still filters its way between the metal slats of the white mini-blinds. A rhythmic, but barely audible sound comes from the pen as she pushes it along the page. This amicable loneliness is quite unlike the hectic, scheduled, and infinitely busy loneliness she is accustomed too.
Turning her head towards the wide, but short mahogany bookshelf, she considers the books that wait to be read. Resting undisturbed, the dust gathers along the edges and across the tips of the spines. Those with embossed letters of gold, now dulled by the veil of light grey particles, beg the loudest to be pulled from their confines and re-discovered. This possibility is quickly erased by the meddlesome sound of squeaking breaks outside. She flinches with each slam of the car doors. Voices and jingling keys prompt her to close the notebook and stand-up, where her reflection in the glided framed mirror over the painted white mantle sees her recognizing that the moment is gone.