There’s something about a quiet room that irks me. The way it’s silent and deafening at the same time pulls my thoughts into a ball. I’m supposed to be writing a story, but all of the words are lying before me. All of them wrapped around one another like a wad of cellophane. My mother loved when people did their presents like that. One year for the adult white elephant exchange at my grandmother’s she arranged hers in that way. I can’t remember who ended up with it, but I can still see everyone laughing as the floor became covered in red-tinted plastic wrap. And how, one at a time, shooters and scratchers came to the surface, finally able to be seen.
It amazes me sometimes how I’m still not allowed to participate in that. It’s not like I don’t have access to twenty dollars to buy a gift. It’s a confusing paradox how being one of the oldest cousins keeps you at the kid’s table. It’s almost like I’m more adult than the parents. I’m the unpaid babysitter who involuntarily watches their children while they eat Christmas dinner at a real dining table. I do a service for them, but it’s just not enough. I’ll sit on the ground and hand them the presents they choose. I’ll sit and watch as they unwrap and unravel.
Maybe that’s when I need the quiet room, to just be alone. But of course, there’s another paradox: when I need a place to be alone there is none and when I feel trapped I’m stuck in one. I’m beginning to discover lately that some balances are near impossible to achieve. And there’s a devastating truth in realizing that I’m the one to blame. When I was a little girl, I would spend hours in my bedroom doing whatever I wanted. I laid out all of my toys and crafts and books all around like miniature stations. I would pass afternoons by rolling about on the floor from place to place, enjoying it all.
I’m not sure where it happened, but I’ve become wound up. All of the good moments and the things I enjoy have gotten wrapped up so many times that I can barely see through the cellophane. From where I’m sitting, I begin to hear bits of the room come to life: the fan’s white noise, the fridge’s slow hums. They let me in on the secret of it all.
It’s time to come undone.
Abigail Langseth
Abby Langseth is a first year nursing major from Omaha, NE. Throughout her life, she has had a love for poetry and literature. Abby is excited to say that her writings have been published in Kiosk.
Maria Jose Zorrilla Rodriguez
Maria Zorrilla is an international student-athlete from Mexico. She is a Business Administration and Marketing Major and recently started working on her digital portfolio. Maria loves to golf, bake, and hang out with her friends.