After the Loud

I keep waiting for noise.

My ears ring with its absence,

like phantom limb pain

for a sound that's gone.

The neighbor's wind chimes

still make me flinch.

But there's only breeze now,

no distant thunder of shells.

My tea grows cold

while I watch clouds.

They're just clouds now,

not signals or signs.

Sparrows have returned

to nest in broken eaves.

Strange how ordinary songs

fill spaces bombs left behind.

My hands remember

the weight of a rifle

but hold garden tools instead.

The dirt accepts them both.

The kids next door play war.

I want to tell them

they're doing it wrong—

too much laughing, too much joy.

But their peace is real,

not this quiet I wear

like borrowed clothes,

still stiff with tags.

At night I count heartbeats,

not casualties.

The numbers mean nothing now.

Nothing needs counting.

Sometimes I catch myself

planning escape routes

through my own garden.

Old habits die harder than people.

The silence stretches,

thick as armor.

I'm still learning

how to laugh again.