It’s Sunday evening. I am sitting in my favorite chair by the lace curtained window, the sun making the shadows long and the bushes and flowers fading into the gloaming. I have a book on my lap and every once in a while the page crinkling as I turn it alerts the cat that something has happened in the apartment. Inside, I hear only the hiss of the gas pilot light and outside, only the occasional car. My cat is gently snuffing in his sleep on the couch, curled up next to the pillows. A cup of tea steams next to me on its coaster of white porcelain. It is so quiet, that with the window open, I can hear the humingbirds’ wings outside at the hanging feeder. It is that quiet.