Free The Counting-Downers by A. J. Compton Page A

unsupervised.
    He was amazing like that, my dad. Not only did he have a great sense of humor, but he humored people.
    Even though at present she was emitting an aura of ice every time I was in the vicinity, I could do with my grandmother acting as a buffer between my mother and me right now. The unbearable silence is becoming awkward and everything is once again back in its proper place so I don’t even have anything to occupy my hands or distract my mind with.
    I don’t want this gulf between us at all, or for it to become any wider than it already is. It’s not what my dad would have wanted. But still, I can’t help the sensation of precariously straddling two tectonic plates, which could shift at any moment, causing an earthquake of epic proportions.
    I wonder if my mom feels the same. I also wonder if maybe we need that earthquake. If maybe one or both of us needs to go off the emotional Richter scale into unparalleled honesty. To speak our true thoughts and pray that not only will love survive the devastated aftershocks, but new life can grow in its wake.
    Maybe there’s such a thing as being too still, too calm, too quiet, and too polite. Too much of too little. Too much of nothing. We are both saying everything except what we want to say. All the words and emotions my mother refuses to set free are bubbling just under the surface of her composure.
    And if I’m being honest, the unbearable heat from my own thoughts and words unspoken is oppressive. Something has to give; otherwise, we will both erupt, scalding each other and ourselves in burns and ash.
    Clearing my throat, I gather up the courage to break the silence. “Uh, Mom…”
    But I don’t get any further than that, halted by her hand outstretched in the universal sign for ‘stop talking.’ Taken aback, my mouth pops closed as I eat air.
    “Not right now, okay? I just…can’t right now.”
    With that, she bends down to pick up her heels, which she had kicked off to clean the house, and makes her ascent up the left split staircase toward her bedroom without a backward glance.
    I stare at the space where she stood for a minute or so, unsure of myself and of what to do. The house, once filled with light and laughter, has never been so dark and quiet. Now, the only sounds are my discordant breaths and the timely ticking of the antique white grandfather clock in the corner of the room.
    Deciding that the best thing is just to go to sleep and try to speed up the process of welcoming tomorrow. I turn off the light in the living room and hallway before making my way up the right staircase to my room.
    As I make it through the other side of my sanctuary, I turn on the light and lean back against the door, taking a deep breath. Exhaling, my gaze travels around my safe place. I know most teenagers would say this, but I love my room. I am the most and best of myself within these four walls.
    Much like myself, my bedroom has seen many evolutions over the years. From the hummingbirds and butterflies of my nursery, to the princess pink of my toddler years, to the purple paradise of my pre-teen years, to the short-lived gothic rebellion of fourteen-years-old, which we don’t speak of, every version of me is written on its walls.
    I’m a firm believer that people leave behind their energy, long after they’ve left a place. It’s why some houses seem haunted while others appear to be the happiest of homes. Taking it all in, the thrum of the energy of all the Matildas past flow through me. This room has seen it all. Heartbreak and happiness, playtime and sleep time, princesses and puberty, sleepovers and secrets, dancing and days off from school. Its current evolution is its best yet, but I guess you always think that at the time.
    Regardless of whether this is the best version of me, this room reflects whoever I am right now. The walls are white, like most of this house, but it’s saved from sterility by the splashes of color that flood every available surface.