Saturday, September 14, 2013
When Quiet is Deafening
But these days I do just that. The boys' rooms on the first floor have been long since transformed into guest/TV rooms and I mostly keep those doors closed to avoid having to clean them very often. Two out of three girls' rooms are also vacant, their former occupants off at college elsewhere. My youngest dwells in a room three closed doors away from mine and, although we often find each other at the kitchen table, we each sense the quiet, like an unexpected and unwanted new tenant. Where there were kids, there were always MORE kids, friends of each who I would find everywhere in the house, and especially in my refrigerator, feeling at home enough to raid it at will.
I am a single parent at present, and that lonely state of being amplifies everything else. I long for noise. For mess. For dirty dishes, questionable jokes and raucous laughter. I miss seeing the sleepy faces of all my children as they stumble down to Cheerios and milk in the morning. I miss the around-the-table songfests of my theater girl with all her theater friends. I miss damp towels on the floor and tripping over piles of shoes in the hallway. I miss them all piling on my bed at night, with wet-from-the-shower hair dripping on my sheets, to watch pay-per-view with me. I miss. I miss.
In the film version of The Sound of Music, an eternally cheerful Julie Andrews says at one point, "When God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window." I am ready for my window, please.