The haunting stillness echoes back to when my mother lived with me. Looking out the double pained windows at Kings Road Park. I can hear the jazz trio. I remember the juggler at the park entrance, welcoming the visitors. The spidery web is stuck between the glass and the screen. The sky is shooting blanks, unsure whether it’s day or night. The unwieldy trees threaten to smack against the bedroom wall. I can’t understand the source of the wind. Sweeping away my clogged brain garbage I refuse to recycle. The nameless green leaves cry out, “Thank goodness there was so much rain, I can survive the scorching summer.” As I open the window, the crows are off key singing. The breeze takes my forehead into a sacred space, where wrinkles dissolve, and furrowed brows can’t survive. Why don’t I hear any cars or dog walkers? Is it my hearing aids or is it the silent witching hour. And when I sense that swishing sound, I can’t help myself from remembering as a child, “Gordon don’t swish.” A helicopter brings me back to reality. An unidentified humming. The last remnants of the dark chocolate protein bar engulfs my mouth. I peak through the window one final time, finding a presence of grace.