The Silence of a Sonata

Foto de Audrey Tebow en Unsplash

Sunlight filters through the folds of the studio curtains with that familiar melancholy, wrapped in a gentle autumn warmth. The cold wind sways the branches of a solitary rosebush, its petals drooping over the nasturtiums, while the muffled hum of an air compressor hums from across the street. A tiny crested nymph scratches the metal railing with its beak, fluffing a wing as it searches for the sly ants that hide among its feathers after playing in the vines.

Can you hear the sound of a horn from the road, where old oaks bend their branches as if what lies below were far more interesting than what lies above? The growl of an engine breaks the stillness of the street, while from the corner of my eye I catch two swallows swooping down to peck at the crumbs scattered on the tiles.

Two days ago, I caught three of them inside the house, beneath the transparent dome that covers my mother’s car. I’m not sure who was more frightened —them or me— but they flitted away, darting between the iron railing and the wooden balcony. The little black chihuahua we keep on the terrace just watched them flee among the eastern winds, as if to say, “Come another day, and I’ll warn you when no one’s home.”

And today, as I stretched on the mattress, my hair tangled in the pillows, I gazed at the ceiling, and a melody drew a smile from my sleepy face. It was like those old notes you find tucked away in a childhood notebook —the kind that make you pause with gentle nostalgia and wonder: “Was this my handwriting? Were these my words?” And then, a deep sigh of recognition escapes you: “Yes… this was me.”

Lying there, staring at the whitewashed ceiling, I felt that same recognition upon hearing the piano keys. It wasn’t just the sound of the notes, nor the wood beneath each one —it was the texture of the composer’s silence… or perhaps, the silence between the notes.

Have you ever sat down and listened to the quiet that lingers between music and lyrics, the hush that seeps out of a stereo or speaker? It’s sublime, almost comforting —you feel like a tiny tessera, like the tiles in a garden: cracked, misplaced, worn, imperfect… yet in the right place. There are no intrusive thoughts in true silence. That’s what I felt when I heard that melody: the silences that live within it.

And now… do you know what else I see as I write this? A little girl. She’s by the desk, absorbed in a notebook, trying to study for her afternoon exam —tender, sweet… present. And she listens too. In the background, the same piano plays, the same hush between one tune and the next… and the faint rhythm of the keyboard as I write. Are these the sounds of childhood that stay in memory? Who knows. Some sounds return to me, and they taste like a child’s nostalgia.

Anyway, today I wanted to write for you —whoever you may be. The breeze that just slipped through the crack in the door stirs the papers in the studio, filled with the scent of vanilla, autumn leaves, and anise. Perhaps —just perhaps— those fragrances reach you too.