Bags of Hush
When Claire and I were little, our step-father’s call for “bags of hush” was are cue to calm the fuck down. I’ve always liked the idea of a bag of hush. It would be lighter than air and once opened, would roll out in waves like the mist from dry ice (and you would have to twirl as dry ice and ballet are forever twined in my brain).
Our new apartment is so quiet. Almost too quiet. I find myself lying in bed missing some of what came to be natural sounds of apartment life in San Francisco: people going through your garbage in the wee hours or the snippets of drunken conversation as people made their way home after last call. But back to the quiet.
My current theory to our quietness is that there’s a house elf standing on the roof with a never ending bag of hush. The hush is rolling out continuously, providing a blanket of quiet for all those who dwell under our roof. I’m not sure how I can scientifically prove this theory, but I’m going to stick with it for the time being.
I have a concern that we’re not down with the custom. Are we supposed to leave out plates of cookies or mugs of spiced rum? It would be a massive shame if we were to fail in the appropriate payment or show of appreciation and our house elf were to take a hike. Any thoughts?
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