And Then

The night she turned forty, she stopped speaking.

Not the morning filled with midlife babies tugging jean hems and black-and-tan puppies gnawing faded pink slippers. Not midday with cnn jab-jab-jabbering in the background as she dusted pollen from newly painted porch furniture. Not the afternoon with her husband outside sautéing tilapia, the acquaintances raising high their Sam Adams to toast her. Not then.

Not even in early evening, congratulations settling into a buzz the height of the hedge, insects still flicks in the less-than-bright light from a fading spring sun. The lure of flesh and feasting not yet on the horizon; the knowledge there.

(As you read this, turn around three times and clap your hands. Were you there? Were you laughing, your voice tangling in the apple buds? May is cheery for the blind and non-asthmatic, an open door of aroma, age swollen into a bloom, years swishing high in the twigs. Hard to breathe anything but sound, the air stuffed with snaps and rustles, ticks and trills. On top of this, human voices, that continuous crescendo.)

Then the guests gone, their over-the-hill jokes packed up in suvs, puppies yapping at tire spins. Other lean bodies clattering away on bikes. The closest neighbors clicking the back gate shut, waving, discussing not-quietly enough—how it went, how she looked.

After that, naturally, the moon was swinging up over the fence, its squinty smile ambiguous. The world continued. Of course, there were the tucking-into-bed hugs with arms smaller than she remembered. There was the love-making, sweet and salty.

Not then, either. Does it matter the moment? After the day. Suddenly. Unplanned. Waiting. And then she began to write.