Floyd Skloot

My wife wears headphones as she plays Chopin etudes in the winter light. Singing random notes, she sways in and out of shadow while night settles. The keys she presses make a soft clack, the bench creaks when her weight shifts, golden cotton fabric ripples across her shoulders, and the sustain pedal clicks. This is the hidden melody I know so well, her body finding harmony in the give and take of motion, her lyric grace of gesture measured against a slow fall of darkness. Now stillness descends to signal the end of her silent music.

My wife sits in her swivel chair ringed by skeins of multicolored yarn that will become the summer sweater she has imagined since September. Her hand rests on the spinning wheel and her foot pauses on the pedals as she gazes out into the swollen river. Light larking between wind and current will be in this sweater. So will a shade of red she saw when the sun went down. When she is at her wheel, time moves like the tune I almost recognize now that she begins to hum it, a lulling melody born from the draft of fiber, clack of spindle and bobbin, soft breath as the rhythm takes hold.