Memory Lane
Silence isn’t necessarily golden.
drumset.jpgAs I’m sprawled out on my brown leather couch the first thing I notice, or feel really, is my brother beating away at his loud and expensive drum set downstairs. Located directly below the couch, every time he hits a cymbal, bass, or drum head, the couch vibrates and the carefully decorated antique dishes in the cabinets nearly shake off their stands. The cymbals perpetually collide with the drum sticks. As he becomes louder and louder, the plates whine and rattle, desperately trying to avoid being shattered. The dust from the pillars above slowly drifts down to the shiny hardwood floor and the room suddenly becomes musty. Through the windows, the light glitters and ignites the dust against the low, dark green and burnt orange walls. Strangely, because of this, the living room seems to become brighter and dimmer at the same time. Then, the dust soars to the striking piano which holds memorable family pictures and a gold-framed clock that continues to tick away the seconds of rhythmic noise.
Dust in the Wind by Kansas

I remember the first day we brought the piano into our awaiting home. Filled with excitement, my dad always loved playing one, and my younger brother and I knew that this would be the piano on which we would practice for hours together. The movers carefully maneuvered the wooden masterpiece through the door. My dad forbade us from scratching the intricate carvings or the smooth, cold keys. However, one of the first days the piano was placed in the corner of the living room, I attempted to move the hardwood bench so that I could sit and play. But because the bench’s slick top (that opened) was unequally balanced, the entire seat plummeted to the floor accompanied by a sickening echo. My face cringed as the bench collided with the floor, bouncing twice and each time, making an even louder and gut-wrenching CRASH!
Suddenly, my brother stops playing the drums and, although the living room stops vibrating, the room does not become quieter. In the background I can hear hundreds of people cheering, bands playing their school songs as the trumpeters swing their instruments back and forth like pendulums, and announcers screaming as they attempt to describe what just happened. Not only this, but my younger brother is bouncing up and down, causing the floor to shake also, as he calls all his friends to tell them what happened on channel four. The Philadelphia Eagles beat the New York Giants.

Then, as my brother downstairs begins to bang on the drums again, my mom strolls in the kitchen and grabs ingredients to begin making tacos on the stovetop. Because the kitchen and living room are adjacent, I can smell the fiesta-flavored ground beef sizzling and popping in the pan. Drifting through the doors and to the couch where I am laying, the smell of the delicious meat advances toward my nose as it is strained into the sink.

This mouth-watering smell merges with the smell of sweet milk-chocolate. Although I am not eating chocolate currently, my family constantly has a bowl of Hershey’s kisses laying out on the clear glass table next to the couch. Next to my hand, I can see a bright, shimmering pile of the foil-covered treats begging for me to eat them and to allow the warm chocolate to melt in my awaiting mouth. I can taste the sweet sensation as I place the Kiss on my tongue and, as the chocolate slowly softens, permit it to slip down my curious throat.
Whenever I stride into the living room, my heartbeat slows down and a sudden sense of tranquility and happiness overtakes my body. The living room is an area where relaxation is permitted and encouraged. I am able sit on the compact, dark brown couch, in the middle of the large room, rest my head on the soft and inviting pillows, and curl up with my cozy fleece and lamb’s wool blanket to read a book. My mom joins me and we sit there together, reading and binging on Hershey’s kisses while relaxing and enjoying life.

Christmas presents also dwell in the living room. On December 25th, my whole family squishes together on the huge, stiff couches and we sit there, slowly, but happily handing out presents to one another. Watching each other like hawks, we all hope that the receiver likes the present, while not even thinking about which presents we will receive. The Christmas tree stands slightly off-balanced against the white, wooden shades, blocking some, but not all of the sunlight. It doesn’t matter, however, because the white lights on the Christmas tree perfectly brighten up the room. The sparkly and fake gold, red, and white apples dangle from the tree branches as maroon bows and gold flowers are secretly tucked between the trees needles. Not too overpowering, the needles give off the perfect amount of pine scent; just enough that if one were to stumble into the room blindfolded, they would immediately realize that a massive Christmas tree was within their reach.
For now, however, I am still laying horizontal on my couch, staring up at the white ceiling and the six dark brown pillars that continue to drop dust as my brother pounds away at the drums. I’ve noticed that some picture frames that hold memories of the past have moved since I’ve been here due to the drums. As I am getting up from the couch, I slide across the slick floor, carefully not running into the table, valued piano, or couches, but headed towards the delicious tacos awaiting me. My brother unexpectedly stops drumming and everything becomes suddenly, quite peaceful.

Travis Barker's Rare Drum Solo