Not all that golden. . .
There is an old, probably ancient, saying that 'silence is golden'. . . Over the years, numbers of times I have wished at different times for silence in an atheistic plea to an unknown god. . . said those words in gratitude after the sick child finally fell asleep in my arms. . . in the stillness, in the precious like gold silence. Tension recedes, the air softens, muscles begin to relax. . . testing the depth of rest. Will the precarious sleep hold or will the misery and agony again break forth. . . little sounds unnoticed before, now appreciated, now magnified by their lack of competition. . . footsteps on the carpet, the creak of a loose floorboard, the dogs toenails clicking on the linoleum, a dripping faucet, the whispered ticking of a clock, even the gentle ever present sound of my heart beating softly steps into awareness after the cessation of a prolonged tension building noise. In perspective, seen from the distance of years gone by, the unbroken quiet of the long ...