If You Call

The days pass in quiet ease. Slow morning coffee on the porch, swim, sun, rinse, repeat. We walked out to the Main Street to watch fireworks from across the hill; people sat in rows along the sidewalks, no one spoke. 

How easy to try to rush the answer. To stress about finding it in such short time of reprieve. Relax now! You yell at your insides, and they laugh, mocking, in return. 

But then you wake one morning, rushing out the door to make the most of the remaining half day, before traffic congests and your alarm clock begins its count down to sweaty, aching rat race days, and as you lie on the dock, letting the warm wood seep into your pores, let the blue waters dance along your spine, listening to the constant rhythm of silence, there you see them. Distant, still, soft around the edges like mornings before putting on your glasses, but definitely, irrevocably, there. You swim a few more strokes in cool, gentle waves. Know everything will be alright.