sounds of silence

Sunsets are deceptive. It hits hard like rain pounds the roof of the car, the hood, the windows, the street, when the engine is off and you sit quietly in the driveway. Close your eyes and the world around you disappears. You're six years old. Curl up in the back seat and imagine the taps are a coded language just for you - dropped from the clouds by the Creator himself. The radio would ruin it, and you don't have the keys anyway. At six, this solitary state is still comfortable, because it's rare and new. When you're twenty, being alone is relative. The sun shines and the rain drops with such fervor that you stopped straining to hear some code. You don't hear His voice, but the silence is the message most of all.

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Note to self: hope for rain so you can sit in the car and write more clearly about it.