the brass door handle is stone cold. it begins to melt as you grab it and squeeze it tight. as the handle turns, tiny wool threads brush your wrist to remind you they’re here to keep you warm. you open the door just enough for you to slip in and leave the crips, cold air behind.
don’t you like it though?
don’t you like when your cheeks start to loosen up? and when you shut the door and stillness soaked in warmth surrounds you?
My dad?
I hadn’t seen him, or talked to him, in a good while. In fact, I didn’t remember the last time. I knew what he looked like because sometimes I’d be flipping through family photo albums and his face would pop up here and there—and these pictures dubbed up as memories. I liked his smile but I didn’t know what it felt like when he smiled at me. I heard him laughing through the pictures, but I couldn’t work out what it sounded like. We had spent time together, and I just couldn’t, for the life of me, remember how it felt to have him close to me. Next to me. With me.
“Do you want to talk to him? He’d like to ask you about something…”
“Okay.” I took the phone and put it to my ear and waited, holding my breath.
“Say something, baby.” Mum’s encouragement was sweet. I just wished I had no eyes on me.
“Hello…?” I said, my voice shaking a little.
“Hey, buddy! So nice to hear you! How’s my little champ doing? Do you remember me? Gee, we haven’t seen each other in a while… I have been really busy, you know? I was going to phone you sooner but things kept coming up, would you believe that? But hey, we’re talking now, right!?”
“Yeah…” was all I could say.
Then there was silence. It lasted eternity. It felt longer than the 11 years I had been alive for.
“So anyway… I would like to come and see you! I’m coming down in a couple of weeks with Margo and Monica, do you remember them? I’m sure you do! They’d love to see you too! Mon is so excited to see her older brother, she doesn’t talk about anything else!”
I was just nodding along, forgetting that such gesture serves no purpose in a phone conversation.
“I thought I could come by your house and we could spend the day together. We’ll go round Auntie Jane’s, everyone’s going to be there! What do you think? Would you like that?”
I opened my mouth but the words wouldn’t come out.
I didn’t know if I’d have liked that. I didn’t know what I thought.
“You still there?” The impatient tone underlined his words.
“Yeah…okay!” I said hurriedly.
“Oh yeah? So you up for it?”
“Yeah! Bye!”
I handed the phone back to Mum and ran away to my bedroom.
Was this phone call my fault? Was I being punished for listening in?
Maybe if I hadn’t picked up the phone, he wouldn’t have asked me if I wanted to see him.
There was a comic book lying closed on my bedroom floor. I sat down to find the page I’d left off. Was it page 14? Or 22? 27? Did it matter? I opened it randomly and stared at the drawings, but I couldn’t focus. Maybe if I hadn’t listened in, it wouldn’t have been him phoning.
The cartoon paperback felt like a safe escape, but every time I opened it, fragments of this story—old and new—were echoing like my dad’s voice on the phone. Familiar, yet distant.
Should I start from the beginning?
Maybe if I hadn’t picked it up, I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable now.
I flipped back to page one.
I wasn’t sure how this story was going to unfold. It felt recycled, like I’d been through this before. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to read it again, but a flicker of excitement pulled me forward, even as my stomach churned with dread, and I knew I’d have to.
So when the phone rang on one cold December morning, I was in my bedroom. Mum answered it in the kitchen, and I casually made my way into the living room. I made sure my brother was too busy building an army of little plastic soldiers and Dad was cooking, TV on at the same time. Perfect. I sat down next to the phone and masterfully followed step two and three.
“…coming down over the holidays,” said the strangely familiar male voice on the other side of the line.
Who was this? Definitely a grown man, of which I knew a few—mostly friends of Mum’s and Dad’s. Or family. Had I seen him before? Maybe he visited us when I wasn’t home?
“Okay,” Mum stated dryly.
“Can I come and see him?”
“Sure you can!”
“I thought I could maybe take him round to Jane’s and make a day out of it, if that’s cool?”
“Well, why don’t you ask him? He’s old enough to tell you if he wants to.”
“Yeah…sure…”
There was a hesitation in his voice.
“Janny, sweetie! Come over here!”
Called Mum out loud whilst holding the phone away from her.
I froze.
This wasn’t one of those nine-times-out-of-ten conversations. They were talking about me. This man wanted to come see me, take me to Jane’s and make a day out of it. Someone’s planning on making an appearance soon and my presence is apparently required.
I’m in the spotlight and I don’t like it.
Anxious all of a sudden, I still managed step five impeccably.
“Where is he? Janny! Someone’s on the phone for you!”
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to speak to this man, but for some reason he wanted to speak to me. Why though? To say Merry Christmas? Happy New Year? My birthday was coming up soon so maybe he wanted to get in super early to wish me all the best. Maybe school? What if it was one of my friend’s dads? I had a hard time matching the voice with a face. Yet, it didn’t feel completely new.
“Where’s the boy?! He was here a second ago. JANNY!”
Mum was relentless. They usually are.
“Mum…”
“There you are! Someone is asking for you.”
It’s your dad.
The phone rang in the kitchen and the living room. It was a dual line—pretty cool, because you could listen to other people’s conversations. As an 11-year-old, I found that both naughty and fun. I didn’t care for the actual conversations; it was rather the act of doing something I didn’t think I was meant to that felt exciting.
Step one: Quickly check everyone’s whereabouts. You don’t want anyone walking in on you. If your brother’s napping, make sure he’s fully out. (Note: DON’T put a pillow over his head or anything silly like that.) If your dad is watching the TV, great—if it’s Formula 1 or Forrest Gump, even better. Then calm down, take a deep breath and…
Step two: Pick up the phone. Ideally you’d pick it up at the same time as the person for whom the call is meant. That’s easier said than done. Catching the exact moment is rare because you, as a young man, have all kinds of other mischief to get up to rather than sitting about waiting for the phone to ring. That’s why you’d usually come into a full-blown conversation, which makes a seamless and noiseless pick-up a necessity. You learn through trial and error.
This means you might be confronted, from time to time, about whether or not you picked up the phone while Mum was talking to her friend about an upcoming trip to IKEA. If your intention is improvement, it’s in your best interest to deny it—and you might need to do so several times.
Step three: Cover the microphone. Essential, if you’re planning on staying incognito. Holding your breath only doesn’t work—I learned that the hard way (confrontation followed by denial). The microphone picks up any noise that’s loud enough in your environment. Examples of those could be the microwave signaling the cheese has melted on your nachos, your dog telling you off for eavesdropping, or the other parent asking what the heck you’re doing with that phone.
The latter means you failed step one.
In any case, use the juicy part of the palm of your hand to firmly press against the built-in mic. It works. Nothing goes through.
Step four: Listen carefully—to the conversation and to your surroundings. Know when to put the phone down without getting caught. Nine times out of ten, the conversations are dull—no secrets, no sensations, no juice. Just everyday shite. I suppose I might have started listening in out of being nosy, but I quickly realized there was no thrill in knowing what other people say or do when you’re not with them.
Yet, I would pick up the phone time and time again.
Waking up with the feeling of being at home is precious to me. This morning, when I opened my eyes and saw the all-too-familiar old wardrobe standing tall in the corner of the room, a sense of contentment wrapped around me like the thick blanket lying across my body.
The air was cold and crisp, and a faint scent of wood lingered in the room. Sunlight peeked through the gaps around the blinds, framing the window in a soft glow.
It’s been a while since I started my day like this, and so I stayed in bed for a while, soaking it in. I felt I deserved this moment—this quiet, familiar stillness—and naturally, I wanted to let it linger.
It’s not really the wardrobe—it’s the feeling. That sense of rootedness, of knowing where the light switch is without needing to look. It’s the grounding energy, it’s letting my feet navigate the old wooden floors without thinking. It’s the endless memories. It’s the falling into a warm, soft hug.
It’s home.
Over the past few months, most mornings have felt like being pulled out of water mid-dream—confusing, disorienting. But today, I floated. It wasn’t just refreshing; it was like taking a breath of fresh air after gasping for one for far too long.
Quiet Paragraphs 