Origin of a Silenced Voice
I make a sound and point. “Oh, you want this?” Mom asks, then takes whatever I point to down. Be it a can of corn, string beans, a favorite toy. I don’t speak until I’m four.
oaks above the house
sway and sway
I try to hold a hammer and nail, or a screw and screwdriver, or a handsaw and wood. Dad corrects me, saying, “let the tool do the work,” or “pay attention,” or “let me show you.” He then does the job himself, after he relocates the tools I once held safely out of my reach.
keeping his carpentry
skills to himself
Sister Bernadette’s icy stare. My sudden self-consciousness, as I realize I, alone, am the only child in the pre-kindergarten classroom still talking. A surging guilt morphes into shame.
sitting still and quiet
‘til it hurts
photo by Sneaky ElbowHire An Editor