Half the week my place is quiet. During those mornings or evenings, I have to fill it with noise if I’m in need of it. Turning on the burr grinder (I know, I’m a snooty coffee drinker), starting the laundry with the rhythmic pulse of high-pitched, high-efficiency agitation, or playing the current binge buddy or playlist pal streaming through my television and speakers. Needless to say, the noise in my place half the week is self-generated and mechanical in nature. Sometimes I think I forget to the turn off the faucet just to keep its white noise as a companion.
But the other half the week, I do not make the noise. The noise fills the room from the two magnificent souls I am blessed to call “son.” There are bouts of laughter, ridiculously loud conversations, the tintinnabulation of tattles and the stomping of elephant’s feet coming from such small creatures. The place is filled to each corner and up to the ceiling.
So now, as the two noisemakers are settled and asleep, all’s quiet. The silence doesn’t need to be filled. The walls, weary from absorbing such wonderful clamor, seem to stand more still, like deer in a forest listening for the next cracking branch underfoot. The air redistributes itself and comes to rest upon shoulders and laps of furniture and floors. I don’t want to create noise now. I just want to listen to the silent echoes of their youth.
Pitts Witts 