Homes

I sometimes think of all the states between California and me. I think of Alabama, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. I think of the roads I'd have to travel to get back home. I think of airports, layovers, and I think of the hours I'd spend scrunched up in a seat to get back home.

I miss California. I miss Thailand. I miss my homes.

The Gift of Quietness

The music from the pool party beneath my apartment seeped into every corner of my home. I tried to ignore it but I couldn't completely shake the sound off.

The wind played on the water of the lake leaving interesting designs to observe, but I couldn't concentrate on the beauty since the radio playing over the park's loudspeakers distracted me.

The college shuttle was silent. It was the first thing I noticed when I jumped on it. I sat down and thanked the driver to myself. Unlike the other shuttle drivers, he played no music. "What a gift he has just given me," I thought. Do people realize that sometimes the greatest gift they can give is the gift of quietness?

What kindness it would have been for my neighbors to turn down their music so the whole apartment block didn't have to hear it. What graciousness could have been expressed if the planners of the park near my house had considered that possibly walkers might enjoy the lake in silence. It is a small thing to consider others' need for silence, but it's a gift beautifully given.