I love being in your study, where I hate to move, lest I upset anything, as on an autumnal day, I never want to tread upon a fallen leaf, or change the play of light on branches of yellow and red. The chocolate-brown valet belongs right there against moon-white walls; your chair hasn’t been used, because I like the scuffed impression you left behind. From your wooden desk, covered with my childhood embellishments in crayon and paint, I pick up your old wrist-watch, and wear it on my upper arm. I glance at your favourite couch by the long window, on which the sun slants across a novel open upside-down. A low shelf lined with books, spilling over with unwrapped journals, grandfather’s black abacus, and your turn-table of youth are all as they were. Now and then I steep in your music from the skies where, with limbs hanging, I sink into your country, a deep-green lush of cushions and bean-bags. Like a baby in a basket of grass I look up at the ceiling, blank and peaceful, and listen to Simon and Garfunkel walk the narrow streets of cobble-stone, and disturb the sound of silence.