The Weight of Silence

DISCLAIMER: this story is heavily inspired by Jeffery McDaniel’s “The Quiet World”

167 words a day, 7 words an hour.

I save them for my lover- hundreds of miles away,

Now here, in front of my father- I know I have to say something.

His trembling hand reaches out to mine. For the first time, I notice how bones jut from his sagging skin, how breath rattles in his hollow chest, how his frail frame lays slack in the hospital bed.

“I miss when you’d talked to me” he rasps so quietly I have to lean in to hear, “I wish you’d use just a few words a day to talk to me, just a-” he’s cut off by his word meter beeping- he never adjusted well to the new way, like me. He smiles weakly at me.

“Father,” I begin. I try to use my precious words to tell him everything; to excuse the inexcusable. I can’t remember when I last spoke to him, so I tell him everything. I tell him of the way the rain ruined my boots, the way the aridity cracked my lips, the way I searched for that old music box he gave a younger version of me, the way my lover smiles and makes it all okay. I tell him everything. As the sun sinks lower, I notice my meter doing the same. 7... “dad,” I conclude, 6... “I love you” 3... “I’m so sorry” beep beep. Times up. As I finish, I look into his eyes, they shine with joy in a way I haven’t seen in a long time. I stare into them until the room is filled with the beeping of his heart monitor, and just like with the beeping of my meter, I know our time is up.

On the way home, I listen to the whistling of the cold breeze. Pedestrians wordlessly pass me, making no noise but the clicking of their shoes. A group of young children sit behind a wooden table, with a large poster in front of them proclaiming: “Let’s Speak Our Minds!” there's four signatures, scrawled in crayon. One of the children looks up at me with hopeful eyes, and for a moment I’m reminded of a younger version of myself, filled with the same fruitless joy and excitement for the future. I feel a pang of sadness for what's to come, for her bright spirit to dampen and darken as it slowly fades away, for her to watch this twisted world helplessly, unable to stop the downward spiral. Her bright eyes reach mine and she scurries to find a piece of paper, furiously scribbling on it. I find myself transfixed and my hand reaches for one of the pencils laid on the desk; the girl quickly drops the paper forgetting all about her speech and shoves the pencil into my palm. I look at her wide smile and the poster in front of me. For a moment, I can believe in her future, that there's hope yet, that something can change. Then I hear an acorn drop on the ground, fully audible in the quiet wind and I’m dragged back into reality. I put the pencil down with a hollow clatter- the most noise I can make, and side step, walking into my house. 

Surrounded by wooden walls and carpeted floors, I enter my home and yearn for the days when singing fluttered through the rooms. I yearn for the days when the sound of my father and me chattering filled the silence. I look forlornly at the television where my friends and I once gathered, which now only plays static. I approach the window and I peer outside where a mute couple sits on a bench. I gaze at their untouched word meters enviously. Their intertwined fingers say everything that needs to be said. I wonder momentarily what my lover's palm would feel like in my own. I wonder if, when next to him, the words would slip away meaninglessly. Yet, when I remember my father, once filled with joy laid to rest silenced, when I remember how my lover and I once spoke for hours, now shortened to minutes; when I remember the once bustling streets; or when my friends and I sat on my couch gossiping, I feel hollow inside. I feel like an old record scratched beyond repair so drowned in dust that it will never make another noise again. 

My hands are shaking, they rattle the drawers as I dig through for something: a printed photo, a small trinket, something- anything. My fingertips brush the powdery surface of an old music box- the cheap kind, the ones you have to twist the handle back a dozen times before it plays a small tune. I smooth the dust from the box, the scent of mildew fills my nostrils. I tentatively twist the fragile handle before I release the knob. The tiny box splutters, for a moment I’m worried it’ll shatter tiny bits of aluminum and glass everywhere, then a small note escapes. More notes begin to follow, creating a rusty little tune. And my heart lodges in my throat, a small cough escapes my mouth, my chest feels both hollow and overpacked. I can almost hear my father’s voice ringing through the air, “This song is pretty special,” he tells me, “better pay attention to the lyrics.” He smiles at me. And he isn’t ravaged by disease like our last encounter, he’s young again- broad shoulders and big smiles. He begins to join the melody and it’s all I can do to listen in silence. 

The phone rings, drawing me from my own thoughts. I think if it had been anyone else I’d have ignored it but it’s the one person I’d let pull me from this moment. I put down the music box to pick up the phone and that’s when the little box falters and shatters, spraying the floor with shards. My lover, oblivious to my childhood shattered on the ground in front of him, joyously announces he’s only used 59 words. I want desperately to tell him about my father, how much I love him. But instead I stare at my meter- a bright glowing 0. “I love you,” He tells me over and over and when we hang up- I feel the pain of losing my father all over again, and in a moment of uncontrollable rage I throw the meter at the wall and listen to its shatter. I open my mouth to enjoy my freedom, but nothing escapes my lips.