Copyright © 2011 -
Angela E Brooks
Music pounds through the floor of the boy’s room
Drum-beats forcing me to tap the counter
While loudly debating the finer points of freedom
With a truculent teen. She is truculent
I am justifiably demonstrably right.
Younger child whines loudly, clutching her rag.
Their father shouts, drowning the hubbub
Shifting the lexicon, bringing a resentful peace.
Children protest, flounce, bang distant doors.
All is quiet, until later it begins again.
The noise a family makes, at dinner, at leisure,
At bedtime, morning, noon and night.
Then in a flash it is gone.
Peace reigns in the newly quiet family home.
We look at each other, where does the time go?
Now we fill the silence in quieter ways
Doors no longer slam, the music is our choice now,
Though no less noisy for all that.
We visit our children as adults
In their homes, chaos and hubbub.
So strange to them – so familiar to us –
Sons, now fathers, shout, drowning the noise
Bringing short periods of resentful quiet
Followed by slamming doors.
We smile, enjoying the hubbub.
Then go home again to peace, and quiet.