I returned from my holidays trip on a January gelid morning, 2 am, -25 degrees Celsius and tons of snow.
A real contrast to my system.
When I opened the door to my house, I breathed a sigh of relief, everything was in order.
I turned on a light, got rid of my suitcases, coat and purse, desperate to go to my bed.
Travel days are noisy, the crowds, turbines, microphones; acoustic trauma, as my otorhinolaryngologist father would say.
The peace of my home was my best welcome.
I sat for a while in my “Punto Fijo (fixed point)” (as my mother called her chair and now, I call mine) to take that much desired bath of silence.
The bustle of the world ceased for a very brief moment.
Suddenly, I heard an unusual sound in my house, at least one that I’ve hardly noticed before. A timid and rhythmic, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…
The persistent drip, so to speak, came from my wall clock.
I tried to ignore it, but it suddenly seemed more numbing than all the noises of my day combined.
I went up to my room and closed the door.
Tomorrow I would deal with the irritating clock.
The most deafening of silences, the implacable.
Time. Tick tock, tick tock…
Leonor Henríquez (Caracas, Venezuela) Civil Engineer by training (UCAB 1985), writer and apprentice poet by vocation. From her time in engineering emerged her Office Stories (1997), another way of seeing the corporate world. Her latest publications include reflections on grief, Hopecrumbs (2020) (www.hopecrumbs.com) and “The Adventures of Chispita” (2021) (www.chispita.ca) an allegory of life inside Mom’s belly.
Today she shares her “impulsive meditations” from Calgary, Canada, where she lives.
leonorcanada@gmail.com