The balm to that little sadness
Some part of me longs for the breezes that would gently shake the wind chimes in my grandmother's backyard, as the little pieces of metal would tremble and that's when you would know that the whole world is silent. That part of me remembers the strange ticklish feeling of laying your head in the grass and looking up at the sun and the blue sky until your vision became spotty, knowing that you could lay there forever if no one disturbed you. But that part also remembers sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the sunflowers on the tablecloth or the rabbit-shaped egg cup that held a porcelain-coloured egg, yolk dripping down one side of the rabbit's ear. It remembers the little sadness that would grip my heart as I ate my egg, a sadness that I would wonder at curiously and ask what business it had to be there. I would receive no reply. It is the same sadness that was much more tyrannical as I laid in the dark in my father's apartment, squished into bed with my sister who