A New Kind of Quiet
By Evie Calvillo
@eviecalvillo
I’m learning so many different ways to be quiet. There’s how I tiptoe out of the nursery as the twins doze off, that’s one way. There’s also how I tiptoe back in, float my hand under their noses, and—when I don’t feel their soft breaths—how I place an ear to their hearts, wait for the subtle rise and fall of their chests.
*
There’s kitchen silent when—in the ten minutes I’ve overslept—they open every box in the pantry and swim in our new indoor pool of uncooked macaroni and dry cereal. There’s wood floor silent when—in the five minutes that I’m ordering library books—they plug the sink and the backup drain with wads of tissue, and the bathroom floods. There’s genuine curiosity silent when—in the three seconds that I look away—they spoon enough flour and sugar on the counter to make a winter wonderland; they unravel every roll of toilet paper in the house without ever wiping their butts; they figure out how to bypass the safety lock on the knife drawer; they climb the door jambs like Spiderman up to the dangerous chemicals cabinet.
*
Then there’s the most deafening of silences—how I don’t return anyone’s messages, and how I press my face into a pillow open-mouthed and pretend no one can see me. There’s dishwasher silent and laundry drying silent and folding laundry silent and folding myself up silent. There’s hiding in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet, and watching half of my favorite baking show with the captions on silent.
*
There’s busy playground silent when I cannot comprehend how I feel so alone. Then there’s premonition silent when, in a newfound and false sense of independence, one twin bolts toward the creek as the other sprints toward a busy street. And then there’s the walk back to the parking lot hand-in-hand and hand-in-hand when I’m fully aware of which twin I didn’t save first.
*
Then there’s car silent as I drive in circles for thirty minutes. And car silent when they’ve finally fallen asleep but I’ve forgotten my downtime book at home. And just when I think I’ve heard it all, I glance at their reflections in the rear-view mirror, and they show me a new kind of quiet.
* A New Kind of Quiet is inspired by Ada Limon’s The Quiet Machine
Guest poem by Evie Calvillo. Evie writes dark fantasy, horrific non-fiction, and monstrous verse, forthcoming and/or archived by Zyzzyva, Nightmare Magazine, and Club Chicxulub. A force of nature on stage, she hosts literary variety shows and has been a featured performer at radical local and virtual events across the country. Connect with her @eviecalvillo.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.