When Peace Falls Silent

There she is again, back pressed against the wall.

Waiting, per usual.

I don’t know her exact name. I suppose I never bothered to ask. I’ve heard many different people call her many different things. Me? Well, I like to call her Peace. The way she rests comfortably, in a world of her own. The way her dark, almost pitch black skin glows as daylight spills through the windows and falls upon her dark brow. Upon her bare midriff are painted white lines that stretch up and around her torso. A high tinkle emanates from her throat as she dwells in the warmth of the sun. She is effortless. A picture perfect image of poetic poise.

From the short amount of time I’ve known her, I’ve never once seen her firm stance against the wall falter. She leans onto it as if she commands the place. And perhaps she does. Studying her expressions, the way she interacts with passing patrons, and her shifting tone of voice has been nothing less of insightful.

Day after day I have sat here gazing upon her beauty. Day after day I have been silently enamored by her elegance and grace. But more so than that, I have seen with my own eyes the girl behind the smile whose edges are worn and ruffled. A girl who absentmindedly glowers out at the room when she believes no one to be looking. A girl who grows quiet and curls into herself after a visiter has bid their goodbye.

In fleeting glimpses, I have come to know her as an extraordinary listener and a great purveyor of passion. And it is when people are around—when she receives the attention she so demands—that her true nature emerges.

I watched on as a man appeared around the corner, turning toward her in hesitation. He seemed unsure whether to approach her or not. He opted for a moment to just stand quietly off to the side observing her. A sign upon her face screamed that she was free to talk, desperate even to have someone pour their emotion into her. She beckoned him forward, and inching closer he made his way to her. Casually sitting down as if he’d done it a million times before.

He spoke to her softly, and her body—covered in scars and scrapes—leaned closer, hanging on to his every word. And her teeth shown as a large, gummy smile stretched across her features. She bore all herself for him, to him. Became vulnerable to his touch. He extended his arms, releasing a sharp pop of his tensed elbows before folding his body over hers.

His fingers glided delicately over each of her indentations, and she sung softly in return, “If we were just kids and we fell in love”.

With a gentle press of his fingers against her surface, a beautiful and boisterous sound echoed throughout the room. He was gentle with her, and she patient, allowing him to take his time as to not make a mistake. Their voices flowed into one another and it became difficult to decipher what part of the music erupted from him and which manifested itself in her.

There was a loud thud, a shuffling of feet, and he glanced quickly towards the sound as if caught in an intimate moment. All the while, she continued to hold onto his hands. One conversation eloquently faded into another. Her low voice humming, “And you can tell everybody this is your song”.

His phone balanced in the palm of her hand. It lit up with a message as the song came to a close. He stared out of the window for a second or two, pausing to check the messages and stretch his limbs.

She waited.

It had been 30 minutes since he happened upon her. Just a half an hour—what felt like a lifetime—had settled between them. Her heart sang a soft tune for him.

Everything was silent for a moment. And then, he shuffled slightly, placed his phone back onto her awaiting palm, and bent back over her ivory keys. Tucking his head slightly he faced her head on. She emitted a beautifully sweet and transient melody, “Here comes the sun, doo doo doo doo. Here comes the sun”. He held the sustain pedal down before gently letting it go, his touch lingering just a little bit longer.

When his hand slipped, she caught it gently and urged it back on in its steady progression. He poured out his story to her and she listened to the intonation of his voice. He hummed softly, she began to answer him with a hummed response of her own, but he pulled back slightly tracing her outline with one misplaced hand and an echoed, “Play me a song, you’re the piano man”. He ended the song abruptly, stopping midway through the chorus, grabbed his things, and walked away.

She watched as he disappeared.

Before she could protest, another man dropped down in front of her. He’d been waiting patiently to have this chance. His backpack leaned next to her, his jacket peeled off and lying in a heap on the floor.

A melancholy mood befalls the room, his foot tapped along to the rhythm. The initial slow pace speeds up slightly, then transitions into a lively upbeat before slowly transcending back into the previous tranquil tune. He embarks on another song, the chords seem too harsh, but her voice is full of emotion and heartbreak, “But I still want you”. A high melody that mingles perfectly with his bass undertones rings out, “It’s been a long day without you my friend, but I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again”.

For as long as I’ve known her, she has always been a great listener, taking in what others give to her and responding in earnest. She gives a voice to their issues, without an ounce of hesitation. And without thinking they tear away at her, little by little. Taking all that she is willing to give. They give nothing in return but an onslaught of emotions that her heart attempts to grasp onto and make sense of. But who ever stops and listens to her?

After all, when everyone else leaves, she stays right where she is, commanding her spot against the wall.