She sits on the arm chair, waiting for him. The silence is deafening in the room but she is calm. The rhythmic sound of the rocking chair’s creak seems unwelcome. She sits still on the chair. He had said she should put a rug beneath it to stop the noise. She used a rug finally. But scuffling sounds are still heard.
They are whispers though, but not unheard. She rocks the chair. It creaks through the silence but doesn’t drown the sound. The blue silk curtain flutters with the storm brewing outside. She walks to the window and shuts it. The sound of the storm is dealt with but the silent tempest within persists. She sits again and rocks the chair. She can still hear the sound through the rug. He had said the rug will drown out the sound but everything is heard. His moaning, crying, gasping for a breath, banging the floor board begging for mercy. It has been five days she buried him beneath the floor, but the sound remains. He should have hushed by now.
She sits on the armchair waiting for his silence. Like a good wife, she honoured him with a final burial.