There are multiple kinds of quiet in a storm. There is quiet when winds pull and push air molecules, and water violently and lovingly beats and scrubs gutters, rooftops, and sidewalks. There is quiet when the storm passes, and sound is vacuumed with it. Quiet takes on a different form—different from that audible roar. So much non-sound creates its own pounding eardrums, compelling everything and nothing to be heard.
I experienced both kinds of quiet while reading Stone Butch Blues. I sequestered myself from the rest of the house while reading and have remained still since. Still, quiet, churning. It’s not a bad quiet, Leslie. It’s the kind of quiet that is loud, full, and promising of good. Even when it hurts.