Silence--A Journal Entry

April 23

Begin here. Dread. Followed closely by regret. Silence, and the lack there-of.

My daughter talks. She can't help it. She talks until she runs out of things to say. Then she talks more. If others talk, she interupts.

My son's every movement is somehow loud. He walks with lead feet. The air moves noisily about with his every gesture. Even now he writes loudly in his journal. The cacophony of being a boy.

In the morning, I need silence. I need stillness. I need the gentle calm of aloneness. But the noise begins before I do.
         
My husband's alarm. My husband's shower. My husband's lamp. Noise.

My dog's kisses... and kisses... and kisses. Noise.

My children wake. I love them. I long for them. But I ache for the silence of a sleeping house.

Begin there. Tomorrow. Early.

I will wake before the stirring begins. I don't want to. My bed is large and warm. It is made of clouds, stars that twinkle in the darkest of night, dreams of world peace, and memory foam.

My husband's snoring is low and deep.  A sound that is familiar to me. He is at peace. No stress. No bills. Just quiet.

Although I cannot hear it from my room, I know my daughter is snoring in a similar way. It means similiar things.

My son sleeps across the hall. He doesn't give the tell-tale snore. He is stoic in his slumber. Looking at him you would never guess that his dreams are so detailed. Vivid. Odd. If I were to wake him he would look at me unknowing, confused by the sudden burst of reality into his still-sleeping mind. He would be soft and quiet and give me a gentle kiss. But I will not wake him.

Instead, I force myself out of bed and down the hall. The dog bounces around my feet. Some noise cannot be avoided.

In the bathroom I brush my teeth and slip out of my night clothes. I grab my fleece robe and slide my arms into it... thankful for it's soft embrace... feeling that the wee hours are much better suited for silk. I've never had a wee-hours robe that fits. Perhaps that is why I sleep so late?

I creep up the stairs quietly and discover, as if for the first time I knew it, that I set the coffee pot to brew. The house smells of joy. There will be no opening of cabinets to break the stillness. I pour my coffee and sit in peace. Soaking it up. Breathing in the sleeping house.

Hours pass.

My daughter talks. She can't help it. She has much to say. It is beautiful because, when she talks, she talks to me.

My son's every movement is loud. He walks with a skip in his step that shakes the floor below my feet. When he moves it is as if the air around him is giggling.

My husband wakes. He comes upstairs to make breakfast. He bangs pots. He laughs. He sings. The house smells delicious.

Noise.

Everywhere there is noise.