I used to believe

(and I believe I still do)

that all things were connected, and that

if you listened

closely enough

you could hear, far away,

like a whisper against a window at night

anything.

And I could.

I remember.

I could.

I remember driving home, one day,

and suddenly becoming certain that

someone was visiting unexpectedly at my house.

And they were.

It was easy, mostly a matter of listening.

I remember

it wasn’t the day that I guessed what time my wife would come home;

it wasn’t that I knew that my daughter was a girl before she was born;

it wasn’t anything at all in particular;

it was a whole string

of unremarkable coincidences, that, when

held up in front of the light

together

were impossible to resolve as anything other than

something else.

I think now,

when I’m driving

or sitting in my little allocated space at work,

or watching my children eat their dinner at the dining table,

I think about those times,

and how the quiet

inside

knowledge

has slowly,

like an old tool left out in the shed for too many years

dulled

until now

I wonder,

could I do it again? if I wanted to? would I want to?

and my use for answers has faded, so I just sit.

and listen.