Quiet Lightning

Sometimes, when somebody opens the door, my voice goes very small.

The somebody might be Auntie Hannah, who I love. Or the lady who delivers parcels, who I also love. Or one of Papa's friends, who I have only met twice.

The somebody says, "Hello! How are you?"

And I — I, who can shout SO LOUD in the bath — go very, very quiet.

People say I am shy. People say it the way they say "It's raining." Just naming it.

What they do not see is that I am not empty inside the quiet. I am loud inside. My heart goes BUM-BUM-BUM. My head has lots of things in it. I just can't get any of them out of the front door.

It is like quiet lightning. Bright on the inside. Outside, only a low rumble.

Mama says it is okay. She says some people speak first and feel later, and some people feel first and speak later, and both are normal kinds of people.

I am the second kind.

After a while — sometimes a long while — the words come out. They are usually good words. They had time to think.

I am not shy. I am still gathering.