How We Begin

A sliver of warm gold, the sun sank below the rooftops of the harbor town, painting the undersides of the clouds in shades of rose and violet.

The man and the woman worked on, their movements a slow and steady rhythm in the fading light. But tonight, there was a third presence in the garden—a small girl, no more than ten summers old, who had clambered over the wall an hour before and had not yet left.

She watched them, her head tilted in the curious way of children, her silence a different kind than theirs. Theirs was a silence of shared understanding, a quiet conversation that had no need for words. Hers was the silence of held breath, of questions waiting to be formed.

Finally, as the first star pricked the darkening sky, the girl could hold it in no longer. She took a small step forward, her bare feet soft on the cool earth, and looked at the woman.

“Why are you so quiet?” she asked, her voice a small, clear bell in the stillness.

The woman paused, her hand hovering over a new sprout. She turned her head, her eyes soft in the twilight, and smiled. “Because some things,” she said, her voice as gentle as the evening air, “are best understood without words. But it is good that you asked. That is how we begin to learn.”