A single note plays through a grey morning, repeatedly, erratically, insisting that it must be listened to. I submit, and look through the gap between the curtains into the nothing of a new day's sky. There's a life in the sound, demanding recognition without craving.
A swirl of cigarette smoke disperses at the ceiling, and the note gets played again, and again, and again-again. Your fingers hold the rolled tobacco to your quiet mouth in a peace sign in repose. You never blow, and instead just let the smoke emerge without force, complaint or exclamation.
One note cancels all the words. All of the unnecessary things that you never said. It was the look of your eyes that spoke so blue: all cool, grey-blue that haunted with its warmth.
Your letters were one note too; written true as a dart that hit the bull's eye each time. They sounded with the sorrow of one who felt the human scream and assuaged it with sure singularity. You wrote me letters that compelled rereading; and I did, because one insistent note cannot be ignored.
A cormorant flies low across the fleeting surface. Was it you, considering finally whether you should allow yourself into the noise of landing? Yet, this cormorant flew onwards, staying low and true, and became a black dot that vanished into the grey morning, leaving the note that would be heard forever.
Written in loving memory of Bill Catterson.