The Slow-Cooked Sentence

I do not know where to begin

Rachael Conlin Levy

So I begin here, on my couch, legs crossed and my laptop propped up on two pillows. I begin here, next to a large window that frames the final blooms of goldenrod, geranium, tickseed, and aster. It rains, and the flowers’ purples and yellows, russets and oranges bleed behind water-streaked glass. I listen to rain hit rooftop, and drip from the eaves. I hear a crow call, and see a jaybird’s brilliant blue.

Inside, the house is silent, and, within its insulated walls, I am silent — or have been silent. But it’s time to write again, not easy after the drought. The parched silence feels natural now, as I leave it behind. But I want to talk to someone, tell my struggles, share my stories.

I hear a click as the refrigerator hums on, and it’s white noise comforts me. This white space comforts as well. Reacquainting myself with the format of boxes and links is like pulling an old sweater from the bottom of the drawer after of a season of disuse. I listen to the quiet tap, tap, tap made with each keystroke, and find pleasure in rediscovering a landscape I’d absented, but no longer.









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