Nancy smiled and set down her cup of tea to read her letters. It was wonderful to have friends scattered hither and yon, and to know how they were all doing, and to be a part of their lives, although apart from their lives. It was wonderful to live in the sheltered constancy of nostalgia.I have found that, over the course of just one week living alone, I have retreated inwards to the point of silence. My voice, which was once strident and clear, is now barely above a whisper. I try to drown out the silence with music, to no avail. I feel all the more ridiculous singing and dancing around the apartment when there is no one to share in my joy, and I retreat into quiet thoughtfulness soon enough. But there is something stable about the silence, or at the very least nothing threatening about the silence. So I don't mind it so much. Perhaps this silence will teach me wit, and timing, and how to make the best use of everything I do say.
She nestled deeper into her armchair and ran her finger across each word. The psychic connection given by the letters, the aroma of paper, and ink, was lovely. But she still kept checking over her shoulder for someone’s warm presence, a hand on her shoulder.
And at least I haven't started talking to myself.