The moment between the injury and the cry.
The breath taken before saying an unwelcome truth.
4 AM in a Redwood forest – even the owls are asleep.
The sound of the bell before it is struck and after its music fades.
The moment of astonishment after your hand caught the falling child.
Everything that isn’t between you on the top of Half Dome and the Merced River below.
The moment when you realize you have fallen in love.
The moment when you realize you have fallen in love with the wrong person.
The moment when the voice on the phone says, “He’s dead.”
The space between the ceiling and the roof.
A mouse when it sees the cat.
A cat when it sees the mouse.
The sound of a leaf letting go of its branch.
The moment after the pilot says, “Oh, shit.”
The moment after “I do.”
The moment before the baby’s first breath.
The moment when you flip the switch and nothing happens.
Stopping the car in the middle of highway 395 when you haven’t seen another car for an hour and the only sound is the ticking of the cooling car and the crunch of gravel that has gathered between the double yellow line as you spin slowly to see Spring daring the desert plain. Then you breathe to break the silence.
The space between the Earth and the Moon. The space between atoms in your cup of coffee.
The space between inhaling and exhaling.
The seconds between the flash and rumble and the seconds before the rain and hail pound the walls of your tent and the sound of dripping afterwards. The long pause between the drops.
The darkness when you blink and the light when you eyes are open again.
The smell of your mother’s Shalimar perfume after she’s been dead for 20 years.
The moment when you realize your wallet is missing. Your credit cards. Your journal.