Analog
We have swallows in our barn. A week ago I found three broken egg shells underneath one of the nests. My birthday was two days ago. All I can remember from my phone call with Joe is the silences.
This morning, I heard the call of nestlings begging for food. The sound is a single note taken from their parents’ song. I noticed that the smell of the grass mown yesterday doesn’t have the same nostalgic pull as that of grass mown this morning. The heat of yesterday’s afternoon drew the chewy, greenness out of the smell. I always panic when Joe goes quiet. Have we been cut off?
I wonder if the swallow nestlings adds notes to their song one at a time as they get older, or does the full song come on all at once? This afternoon, the sweat on the glass cooled us as much as the bitter-sweet taste of tonic cut with lime. Eventually Joe speaks again. Something in his voice has changed.
I am up late. The air is so clear that the stars shine steadily without a single flicker. The gleaming quarter moon has a line of three planets trailing after it. Silence on cellphone calls is always disconcerting. The background hum of the old analog phones was a reassurance. I remember being able to stay on the line, saying nothing, listening to the universe whisper and Joe breathe.
Published on The Laundry Line, 3 February, 2026.
