It Was Always

I never knew how much I would miss the noise.

58th Street was never quiet. There were just so many families that lived there, and most of them had four or five children.

Ours was an exception, with only two daughters. And, of course, Mom’s siblings had remained single and Ellen and I were the only grandchildren. At least during those years.

Tenements because of fire laws never had doors on any of the rooms. Noise was an accepted part of life. Not only in your own living space, but also, as you ascended the staircase.

Family discord from adjoining floors rose to other levels, and privacy was relatively unknown unless you cultivated the art of whispering.

Street noise was an accepted condition. While it never really became a problem for me, I unconsciously welcomed silence, either in a library or the quiet of a church pew.

After I left New York, I soon became aware how quiet other locations were, and I embraced the lack of noise.

Then the babies arrived, and while I loved each and every one of them dearly, they did seem to cry a lot. Especially in the early months when I often wondered which one of us would survive, the infant or I.

When the crying eventually stopped, the laughter and shouting began. “Who took my ??????” “Where did you put my?????”

Admittedly, I, too, often shouted back, “Quiet upstairs,” where the Fabulous Four had bedrooms.

Then one summer day the noise seemed softer and almost seemed to dissipate. And oh, so suddenly, it was quiet, almost like the library or church where I had once sought refuge.

After the four left to find their fortunes, my husband played his music more often and I bought a computer. Neither one of us admitted we missed the noise, but of course, we both did.

Then one dark winter day without too much warning, he, too, left, and the silence seemed to invade not only the house, but the neighborhood and even my life.

And I knew then that it was never noise I heard all those years, but music.