They Sounded Like Questions

The air was still, and cool, the way it is inside of big caves. And it felt a little bit thick as it filled her lungs – thick with moisture, thick with the presence of living things. The chair beneath her smelled like mildew. The cushion was once velvety, but as she ran her fingers along the edge of it now, it felt like it had gone bald long ago. When she sat on it, a little puff of dust made its way to her nose. The brass buttons that held the cushion to the chair were cold on her hands as she gripped the chair beneath her, taking careful inventory of her surroundings.

The table in front of her was rough and knobby. She leaned forward on it, and the grain of the cracked wood cut into her elbows. The table had scraped the dusty floor noisily when she bumped it coming in, but now it sat on its thick legs silently.

She could hear the walls crumbling as she sat with the table in silence. The dust from them tickled her eyes and incited small tears. She blinked them back, feeling the dust being pushed to the corners of her eyes. There were rustlings in the roof above her. It seemed as though she should be hearing those sounds in a wheat field outside, but it was above her. She looked up for a moment, but quickly looked down again. She didn't want to be blinking back more than the dust that already crowded her eyes.

Outside, she could hear the voices. Some of them rumbled – like a large, hungry stomach. Others excitedly tumbled out – like a water brook pushing out of the ground into the sunshine. There were a couple that were gentle – like the whisper of a breeze passing through the trees. She hoped they would be the ones to speak to her, the whispering breeze ones.

There was laughter too. It burst into the open window like it owned the little house. It was not mocking, though. It was full. It had all of the tones and variations that a good round of laughter should have. There were short bursts, soft snorts, hearty chuckles that climbed up from way down in someone's stomach. Some of the laughter skipped out, hopping up and down like an excited puppy. Some of it sauntered out, as though dressed in a tailored suite and carrying a cigar. Yet, somehow, all of it was laughter.

She breathed in sharply and smelled the sweet stickiness of sugar cane in the air. At her side, the thoughtless buzz of flies broke up the sounds wafting to her ears from outside the house. The sunlight was coming in the window at such an angle that the room was a gentle orange all around her. It made her fingertips tingle with warmth. When she breathed in, the sunlight was warm on her tongue also.

The footsteps were determined, but sounded only like a gentle steady tap on a small drum as they approached from far away. As they drew nearer, the sticks breaking beneath them and the gravel shifting in their passing became audible. In her ears, they sounded like footsteps. In her head, they sounded like questions.

Then the rusty door handle turned in the soft orange light. The thin wood of the door rubbed the floor with a gentle cooing as it swung open. The next sound was the lazy exclamation of the hinges, and then all of the voices and laughter were dancing beside her in the golden light.