Just close it. That’s all. Just close it. The little click let’s you know it’s closed. It clicks just once. You need the sound. You need the sound to let you know it’s closed. Once it’s closed there is no sound. You know it’s closed because there is no longer a click. First the sound of the no-click when it’s open, then the click, and then the sound of no-click after it’s closed. The no-click no-sound is vast and tough to swallow, much like the cod-liver oil the old man talks about having to drink when he was young— “mother gave it to me by the spoonful because of my ears, my lungs, my nerves. We thought magnets could cure rheumatism.” It’s the kind of no-sound silence in the room when he’s talked himself tired and you’re left with only the space between his bed and your chair and the tail end of his story— “…we woke up and the Dodgers were gone. They tore down Ebbet’s Field. Knocked it right down into the cold earth.” The cold earth hovers between you both. How can anyone compete with the cold earth? You can’t. You don’t even try. A long almost-silence is the only solution. You call it silence, but if you really listen, you’ll hear all sorts of things: people talking downstairs, words indistinct except for the occasional name, Bob, Mary, Corwin; feet on the coffee table, heels scuffing the wood; pills poured from a  bottle into a cup; spaghetti boiling on the stove; jello wobbling in its mold; kids shooting hoops at the park; cars on the overpass; a truck jake-braking on the bridge; a girl yelling No fair! Stop it!; someone throwing bottles into a recycling bin; a shower curtain sliding on its rings; a plane landing at the airstrip. Those sounds are below the silence, you have to climb under the silence to hear them and who has the time for such things during these busy final days? It’s such a complicated process. First, you seek the edge of the silence and then find a purchase upon its rim. It’s like slipping your fingers under a manhole cover; possible, certainly, but only with monumental effort. You have to wait for the silence to spread. You have to grip its edges without setting off any alarms. You can’t let the old man start talking again; you can’t get out of the chair; you shouldn’t even blink, let alone weep. Movement will turn the tide against you. You’ll have rustling and creaking and snapping to deal with and you have to hope the old man won’t groan or mumble or fart because then you’re out; gone; no chance. But if all is aligned and you are patient, the stripe between afternoon and dusk will crystalize, and you can slip underneath. But that is not all. There is always more. If you are very careful, and if you’ve trained well, you can find yet the smaller gap between the underneath-silence and the absolute-silence. If you find yourself there and unafraid, you must close the door. It is the only option. Reach out with both hands. The doorknob will be there beneath your trembling fingers. All you have to do is pull with an open heart. Pull until you hear the click.

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