She was grateful when, at 6:40 p.m., a sort of peace — a gauzy cloak of comfort— floated down from the the ceiling, covering her head and shoulders. Her cat purred at her side and the golden hour had finally arrived. Meanwhile, the neighborhood teenagers, who jammed hard, pulsed and pounded three houses down. The faraway beat grew irritating… and then for a moment she couldn’t tell the difference between the drummer and her heartbeat.
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In his little room he waited.
The record, the record! he shouted.
There is no record, she cried.
It’s all lost, then? he asked.
It’s all written down, she replied.
Your deep, deep calm exists,
she whispered. And there will be a day
when you find yourself floating through
the waters, that endless, blue, bliss.
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Kimberly Townsend Palmer 