That empty table

As a species, we're talkers. In cities, we're loud, filling space with noise as if we're terrified of what else might be there.
In 65 years I've heard arguments about ridiculous things and noise levels rise, daily, filling those historic spaces.
Social media is bursting with pictures of empty spaces so I'm adding my own, but the story behind this one happened last year, when I was not in the country. The beautiful red scarf was a present from a family friend, the three chairs were anticipating the arrival of more friends. I'd been alone for nearly two weeks when I set out this little tableau and I'd absorbed silence as if it was my natural state. In fact it wasn't silent - there were birds, sheep, goats and the occasional laugh of a child from far down in the village. Once I heard a motorbike, sometimes there were walkers on a path that crossed the valley and curved below the house.
The quality of that silence was a balm. I filled it sometimes with Amazon music - blues and the heavenly sounds of west African kora and song. I couldn't go this year and for many reasons I'm relieved I didn't. I decided this was a year of not flying but in the circumstances it feels like a gift of second-sight.
There's no point wishing life was otherwise, but I can't help it. Mostly now, I wish I could stay away from the non-stop chatter that passes as information and yesterday from a news report that was reminiscent of WW2.
I look at the emptiness of the table, then, in two ways. As an invitation to friends who'll be there in the future. And as a reminder of how as humans we tie ourselves up in talk and fear. Can we live differently? The table is back in the store-room. When it comes out again a lot will have changed.