The Silence of Noise

Our house was always full of noise. I can’t recall a single memory where someone wasn’t running around laughing, or when the kitchen wasn’t full of children asking what was for dinner. The walls were coated in the sounds of our voices.

Our house was also full of love. It seeped through the cracks in the floors and spilled onto the carpet. My mother digs holes in our hearts and fills them with flowers. Even our utensils have been touched with the type of kindness that leaves a physical trace. 

Tonight though our house is silent. The walls are asking us where the laughter is and the floors have run dry. 

Our kitchen is full of disposable cups and streamers. Food lines the counter and plates litter the table. The sink is full of dishes that won’t be washed until tomorrow and our fridge is empty, my mother will go grocery shopping on Sunday like always, always. 

But for now all I was looking at was the aftermath of an uproar. If I think hard enough I can still hear my brother singing and my sister crying. I can even hear my father laughing with my mother. I can hear it all.

The silence slams into me with force, I think I might die. I want to cover my ears and memorize the sounds my siblings make. I want to dissolve into the walls so I can listen to them forever, so I never have to leave. I want to stay here forever, just like this, listening to the noise they make.

I move towards the table and start to clear things off. I step on streamers and try to ignore the hum of our empty fridge. 

“You’re cleaning up?”

I turn and face my mother, her hair is pulled back into a braid and there's a small smile tucked between her lips. I think of when I was little and asked her to teach me how to braid my hair. I never did learn but it didn’t matter, she always braided it for me.

I smiled and shoved the plates in the garbage, “Yep. I thought someone had to do it.”

She started to pick up the cups one by one, “Where did your dad go?”

“They went out for ice cream. Macy wanted Rocky Road.”

My mother nodded and continued to pick up cups, “Why didn’t you go?”

I wanted to listen to their laughter from the walls.

“Oh. I don’t know. I’m not really feeling up for it.”

She stared at me for a second then moved to the sink. She pulled on pink rubber gloves and picked up the sponge. I could smell the dish soap from where I was standing. It smelled like oranges. 

She started with the bowls. I started to pick up the streamers. The kitchen was quiet, it was quiet with all the things we couldn’t say. I wondered if the walls would know how to say them. 

“Do you remember when you turned 10? You wore this big blue dress and took my heels,” my mother laughed, “They were so big on you. Your feet were so small, they used to fit in my hands.”

I thought about my 10th birthday. I remember the dress and the heels, I remember how big they were. I ended up tripping and fell down the stairs. I remember my mother holding my knee in her hands and kissing the pain away. I broke her heels but she wasn’t angry, she just held my knee until I stopped crying.

I smiled at the memory, “I remember. Do we still have the dress?”

She stopped doing the dishes and stared off into space, “It’s in a box in the garage somewhere.”

Silence filled the kitchen again but it was full of something else, it was full of loss. 

That blue dress was collecting dust along with other things I had no use for, my roller skates and the piggy bank I refused to break. Maybe this memory would collect dust one day. Maybe this kitchen will be coated with spider webs and silence. 

I grabbed the broom and began sweeping. My mother started to do the dishes again. Her gloves made strange noises against the water, the soap filled the room with the scent of oranges and cleanliness. 

“Mom, will you teach me how to braid my hair?”

It was an abrupt question and I was surprised it even came out of my mouth.

She turned to me and I could see the red underneath her eyes, they were blue and glossy. 

She turned the water off and motioned to the seat next to her. I could hear the snap of gloves pulling away from skin and sat down. 

My mother stood behind me and ran her fingers through my hair. The same fingers that made me dinner every night and brushed away my tears the first time my heart broke. My mother had wonderful fingers, she had fingers that breathed life. 

“Your hair is so long now, it smells like your fathers shampoo.”

A giggle slipped out, “I used your guys shower this morning.”

I heard a breathy laugh as she continued to brush my hair with her fingers.

“The first thing you want to do is divide your hair in three.”

I felt her section my hair gently, “Then you want to pull the first strand over the second and the third strand underneath.”

There was a small tug and I could feel her fingers moving to create the beginning of a braid. My mother was always gentle when she handled my hair. My mother was gentle to her core. 

I could tell she was still braiding my hair and had forgotten she was supposed to be teaching me. I didn’t mind, after all she could always braid my hair. As long as I sat in a chair and she stood behind me. If we were only a room away from each other. If only I didn’t grow up so quickly she could braid my hair over and over again.

“Are you scared, honey?”

I stiffened. My mother could read me like an open book. Even when I thought I was concealing my deepest fears she always knew, she knew when I fell in love and she knew when I fell out of it. 

“No, I’m not scared,” I lied.

She just hummed and continued to braid my hair, “I was scared too. Everyone is scared when life changes. Even when those changes are inevitable.”

I closed my eyes and leaned back, “Am I weak? Am I weak because I’m scared?”

I asked her the questions that had been trapped between my ribs for the past 6 months. I wanted to know if this was all for nothing, if growing up was something I would regret. Something that would permeate me with silence.

My mothers fingers slipped onto my cheek, “No.”

That was all she said. A simple no but the sincerity in her voice struck my core. I wasn’t weak because my mother said I wasn’t, that was enough for me. At least for the moment. Right then in that chair, in that silent kitchen, I was full of noise .

“What are you scared of?”

I didn’t have to think about her question, “I’m scared I’m going to forget what you all sound like.”

I was scared that the house would change and the silence would follow me, become me.

“Can I tell you something?”

I nodded. 

“You used to sing to me when you were little. You would clutch my fingers and sing. You would do it for hours on end,” there was a pause and I could tell she was crying, “I still remember what you sounded like. You don’t sing to me anymore but when I fall asleep I can hear you.”

Tears pricked my eyes, “What did I sound like?”

Her laughter was wet, “You sounded like you were happy. You sounded so happy.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks and I sobbed. I sobbed while my mother braided my hair.

I would take the laughter, the yelling, the whispers and tears from the walls. I would take the love from the floors and I would dig a hole in my heart and fill it with noise.

I would be gentle and kind and I would ask my mother to braid my hair before I left.