Quiet
Our house was quiet, as a child. There was very little shouting, yelling or crying. There was very little unrestrained laughter or chatting or giggling. It was a tomb for emotions. You could walk in and think no one else was home until they appeared around a corner. It was quiet in the way soldiers are before battle. It wasn’t a peaceful place. It was tension and anxiety and fear. It was walking on eggshells. It was delicate. It was volatile. It was stifling. There are different kinds of quiet. They have different textures. There’s the peaceful sounds of a house asleep or the repressed noises of a recurring nightmare. There’s the crackling energy of barely contained rage. There’s the heavy ominous weight of shame. There’s the sharp slicing of the air when you’re given The Look. There’s the desperate muffling of sobs. The panicked shaky attempts at hiding. The embedded glass of secrets. Silence doesn’t mean safe. It can cut like a knife. We weren’t beaten or yelled at. There was bare
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