The Grammar of Silence

There is a language beneath words— the way wind knows the shape of leaves before it touches them, how water finds its path through stone.

I learned it in the pause between breaths, in the space where sound dissolves into pure attention. A crow's cry hanging in the still air teaches more than argument.

My mother kept silence like a garden, tending what grew in that soil— patience, or perhaps just time's true weight. She never filled the empty rooms. Instead she let them sing.

I am learning her alphabet now, letter by letter, each rest a kind of speech. The world speaks loudest when we stop translating.