If you were to walk down Lower Beach road tonight and look in the window of house number 28, you would see us sitting on the couch. I am bundled in a blanket, wearing two sweatshirts. Rich is sitting beside me and we're both facing the TV. But it's turned off. I'm scribbling in a journal and he's working on homework. We're not talking about our day. We're not flipping through channels or surfing the internet. We're sitting and being. It's taken three years of noise to get to this quiet place. It's a place where we don't have to fill the silence between us with words or questions. It's a place of breathing. There's a quiet clink as I set my wine glass down. He smiles when I slide my hand into the warmth under his knees. And like a battery that's nearly drained, I feel myself recharging in the silence. This is good.
Then Micky discovers my glass of wine and knocks it off the coffee table while trying to get a good sniff. I leap up and knock over Rich's homework binder in the process. There is noise now, the sound of life- yelling and running for towels, laughing and groaning at the rose colored splotches in the carpet and on my socks. I don't mind. I change my socks and while I'm at it toss in a load of laundry. Rich puts on music and I grab the laptop and chatter away as I check e-mail and such.
The quiet is gone, but we had it for a moment, and that moment was good.
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