Зима тревоги нашей

           MaybeIwantedtotalkmyselfandIdidn’thaveanythingtosay—because,togiveherfairdue,shedoesn’tlistentomeeither,andagoodthingsometimes.ShelistenstotonesandintonationsandfromthemgathersherfactsabouthealthandhowmymoodisandamItiredorgay.Andthat’sasgoodawayasany.NowthatIthinkofit,shedoesn’tlistentomebecauseIamnottalkingtoher,buttosomedarklistenerwithinmyself.Andshedoesn’treallytalktomeeither.Ofcoursewhenthechildrenorsomeotherhell-raisingcrisesareconcerned,allthatchanges.

           I’vethoughtsooftenhowtellingchangeswiththenatureofthelistener.Muchofmytalkisaddressedtopeoplewhoaredead,likemylittlePlymouthRockAuntDeborahoroldCap’n.Ifindmyselfarguingwiththem.Irememberonceinweary,dustycombatIcalledouttooldCap’n,"DoIhaveto?"Andherepliedveryclearly,"Courseyoudo.Anddon’twhisper."Hedidn’targue—neverdid.JustsaidImust,andsoIdid.Nothingmysteriousormysticaboutthat.It’saskingforadviceoranexcusefromtheinnerpartofyouthatisformedandcertain.

           Forpuretelling,whichisanotherwayofsayingasking,mymuteandarticulatecannedandbottledgoodsinthegroceryserveverywell.Sodoesanypassinganimalorbird.Theydon’targueandtheydon’trepeat.

           Marysaid,"You’renotgoingalready?Whyyouhavehalfanhour.That’swhatcomesofgettingupsoearly."

           "Wholeflockofcratestoopen,"Isaid."ThingstoputontheshelvesbeforeIopen.