Words like violence break the silence

Apologies in advance, what follows isn't a short story but a series of observations...

It's Sunday night, a little before 10pm on what is Easter Sunday. I reach the outskirts of the town of my birthplace and which has been my home for much of my 47 years. Silence has descended upon her akin to the days when everything would once have been closed on a Sunday. The type of silence that follows a full blown argument where both sides have retreated to their respective sanctity, the only thing missing here is the unease. All is still, it's like the beauty found in the brush strokes of a classic painting. For now the only noise that can be heard is the thrum of an extractor fan, the sound of my feet and the casing of a loose pack of ibuprofen rubbing against my glasses which is a very distinctive sound as you can probably imagine. 

For a couple of minutes no sign of life, eventually I pass a couple walking up the hill to my right as I carry walking over a crossroad. She laughs as he stumbles before he makes a quick excuse that I don't fully catch. A young man coming towards me crosses the road, if his feet were making a sound I didn't hear it over the sound of my own. On the wall of a flat a giant TV as someone watches the snooker. Another crossroad and an orange car passes in front slowly from left to right and vanishes down the hill. No need to rush, no traffic to halt it's progress anywhere. Bells begin to chime to signal first the changing of the hour and then singly to indicate its now 10pm. I count them out in my head in the same manner I would have done as a child. 

An old woman slowly makes her way down the path too slow to make any noise aided by a wheeled frame in front of her. I step out onto the road so as not to frighten her and walk around a parked car and only having passed her do I step back onto the path. Manners cost a man nothing, maybe the act of kindness which restores her faith in men and human nature in general, a gentleman of the night. I try my best. 

With every few hundred yards I'm travelling through centuries of time and history, through old quarters into new builds and back down through the centuries once more. Bricked up windows abound, not because of vandalism but from the days when windows were taxed. Faint music can be heard from one of the houses, the door of a grand Georgian townhouse adorned with a ring of Easter eggs, not quite as eye-catching as a traditional Christmas reef but memorable all the same. The light of a kitchen window illuminates the blind of white, pink and coffee coloured horizontal stripes. More life in another window as a man stands up but as to the reason why only he knows between us. 

A business open, lights from the public house shine across the square in front yet no noise emanates from inside. Finally at the end of the road two cars approach the roundabout ahead and punch through the blessed silence but they're gone as quickly as they'd arrived. I turn left, loose gravel crunches under my feet. An open window brings behind it the sound of someone washing up, closer to the end of the close an African grey parrot can be heard behind a window. Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction. 

At the end of the road I turn left, to the right three young lads are stood next to a car talking. I make my way up the hill which leads back into the main town. Another public house is open but no sign of customers inside there either. A takeaway is open with four or five delivery bags pushed against the window all empty, trade is clearly slow tonight. A man walking down the road wearing a baseball cap coughs, breaking the silence for a split second. I turn right through an archway towards the bus station. Finally some real noise, at the top of the road a couple of hundred metres up a group of women cackle excitedly but as I walk through the bus shelters their sound has dissipated totally. Across the car park and turning left the peace is once more shattered by the sound of an engine, the type so loud that on a night such as this it can be heard for a minute or more after it vanishes out of view. Bells toll again to signify its now a quarter past ten. With the car finally gone the silence makes a welcome return. Up through the car park and the town leg of my journey is now done. Over the hill and back down the other side into the valley then along the river and past two people, the second of which is quite heavy underfoot. The final sound of note is an owl hooting, then of me turning the key in the door back home safely. It reminded me of when Covid struck and how everyone sought safety behind closed doors, fearful of what lay beyond in the outside world. Yet there was no fear, only thankfulness at being able to soak in the calmness of a beautiful still clear night. In a few hours hoards of tourists will descend upon the town and the silence of the night will be a distant memory but one forever etched in the words written here.