Quiet and Loud

Round and round, blue and pink, the bustling of hundreds of ignorant human beings speckling the backdrop, and the soft, murmuring, white noise of the machine. She sat inside the teacup, her pink, cold-seated teacup. And she sat victorious, the goodest girl among the rest, who knew to only cry and complain. Three-year old Christine sat quietly in that Disneyland teacup ride, the only ride she rode that long day. But on that three-minute ride, which seemed to stretch into eternity, her mind began grasping. She caught the colors, the sounds, the air, the taste, the emotions. And she remembers being quiet, bored, and conscious. She looked. Dad always said she had big eyes. The pink table in the center felt rough and scratched up, war scars from enduring thousands of toddlers, like her, but maybe slightly fussier. The people existed in different shapes, colors, sizes, fonts, but they were too busy and oblivious to sit down and to be, and then they would fade into the background again. Turning rhythmically, the cup rotated sluggishly, completing circles around Alice of Wonderland. Everything simply existed. It was quiet, despite the thunderous roar of people speaking. Her first memory. 

That night, she had a dream, her first. It was beyond sunset, and time for home. A dimly lit parking lot, a haven of escape from the noise behind. Rolling over cracks and hills that laced the imperfect, asphalt parking lot, she bobbed and rocked in her stroller, unresistant to the erratic pavement. She trusted in the faithful, raggedy stroller and in the steadfast pace. She loved the thrill of an unpredictable change but the comfort of a familiar rhythm.Then a raw, surge of laughter fluttered into the lot. A group of giggling teenage boys huddled behind a crossover jeep, and they waved bright, flickering sparklers. Happiness, friendship. It was chilly that night, but a glimpse of summer air danced in the sky. The cold air licked at her chubby hands, but warmth, given by a  pretty stranger, comforted her. Silently, she rode down the desultory road, until she arrived at the gray, carpeted sedan, her cue to close her eyes. And when she closed her eyes, she knew that the warm and worn hands of her mom or dad would slip down her back and lift her up. She’d slump and disappear into their large, warm body, cheek melting into their shoulder. Then they gently laid her head back, allowing her to sink into the safety of the cool, worn car seat, and snuggly buckled her in. Click, click, click. The lights turned off. The radio’s on, but it dissolves into the background. Then the engine would breathe, and the soothing, white noise of the tires hugging closely against the concrete whispered a lullaby as she fell asleep. 

Quiet. Maybe too quiet, so she didn’t know loud was knocking at the door. Maybe too quiet, so she didn’t know that loud would grow impatient and open the door, unknown and unwelcomed. Maybe too quiet, so she didn’t know that loud scared quiet away, and now she lives with loud. Where’s quiet? Quiet lives in the past, at least for now.