It was quiet. I mean you could hear a pin drop quiet. Our house is old and drafty and the only noise was from the blowing wind outside creeping inside. I have dreamt of stillness like this, wished for it, begged for it, and now it feels lonely and sad. It may be even more pointed because I am surrounded by memories of noise. Coloring sheets scattered on the floor, clothes laying in random piles throughout the house, library books propped up on shelves, and toys that whistle, sing, and beep littering the playroom , all turned off. It isn’t forever, I know soon the house will be filled with all the noise childhood brings, and once again I will be praying and screaming for silence. For now though I am pondering the contradiction. I could sit and just breath it in, but it feels wrong somehow. Not wrong for me to enjoy it, but wrong that the silence is there. I could turn on the tv, listen to music, get up and vacuum, anything that would make noise, anything to distract me from the noiselessness. The silence brings reminders that they won’t always be here and that one by one they will leave and the noise level will lessen until it disappears. It isn’t that it makes me want to run out and seize the day or make promises to live more in their presence, it simply portends what will be.