March 4 til April, somewhere in between
By Frances Thrasher
March 4 til April, somewhere in between
It has been quiet here.
Not in stillness, but in passing. The kind where the days move quickly, one into the next, leaving little space between them. Winter giving way to spring. New things being made and sent out into the world. Easter arriving in its usual, unhurried way. Days full enough that they seemed to carry themselves along.
The journal has been left untouched since March 4.
Not for lack of thought. Not for lack of noticing. If anything, there has been too much of both. Ideas arriving at the wrong moments. Phrases forming and dissolving before they could be held. A sense that something should be written, and no clear place to begin.
So nothing was.
And yet, the estate continued on without ceremony. The light still moved across the floors in the afternoon. The kettle was set on, again and again. Doors opened. Doors closed. Small, ordinary rituals carried on, entirely unconcerned with whether they were recorded.
There is something useful in that.
A reminder, perhaps, that not everything needs to be captured to be real. That a pause is not an ending. That the absence of words does not mean the absence of life.
Still, it feels worth marking.
Not as a return. Not as a declaration. Just as a small acknowledgment:
It has been quiet here.
And now, a line has been written.