In the Quiet
I am sitting with the light
by a window, watching mama
scuttle around every room of the house
when the wind whistles a tune
from the lullabies of my child life
that once played through
a boombox cassette player
inside a small, cluttered living room
with mint tile flooring and
eggshell coloured walls.
Side A finishes just as
mama drops the wooden spoon
into the kitchen sink.
For a moment, all is quiet.
I watch as the hairs
by the edges of her face turn grey;
the skin around her eyes are now wrinkled
pieces of tissue paper, much like the ones stuffed
inside the unopened gift bags set aside
for what would have been
my fifth lap around the sun
but has instead, become a race unfinished.
Her spine is curled into a question mark
stopping just by the base of her neck —
the tense lines on her face
sharpen into exclamatory signs.
Her body, standing in question of the heavens
as though it has become a mere expression
of her sentiments to God such as:
Why does the pasta taste spicy?
Where is the goddamned kitchen knife?
Curse this whole damn place!
Where the hell is my husband?! Who does he think he is disappearing like this?
Screw him!
How did this happen?!
Why me? Why us?
My baby. . . oh, my baby!
Please,
God please, I just want my daughter back!
Mama is doubled over by the sink
with one hand hooked onto the counter
and another cupped over her mouth,
catching whimpers and tears
until they overflow,
spilling into the drain.
I watch her, willing the wind to tell her
that I don’t mind spicy spaghetti for dinner,
or to thank her for buying me
that collapsible dollhouse for my birthday,
or that daddy sleeps in his car some nights.
I want to tell her that I love them both,
that I’m here,
I’m here,
waiting in the silence
listening to them cry every night.
But she does not notice
and all remains quiet.
