Winger

quiet time

I’LL SAY IT NOW. I didn’t talk for those weeks because I was afraid of the words.

The words came together and said how Joey died: alone and scared.

And he never did anything bad to anyone.

Ever.

But when I was quiet, I could hold on to Annie’s hand, and that was a word that didn’t need to be spoken. And Doc Mom, sitting with her arm around me and listening and crying, that made words too.

The same words that make the horrible things come also tell the quieter things about love.

I found out something about words. There are plenty of words I can put on paper, words I can see with my eyes and scribble with my hand, that I never had the guts to say with my mouth.

Sometimes, I used to think I was brave; but I don’t believe that anymore.

And then it’s always that one word that makes you so different and puts you outside the overlap of everyone else; and that word is so fucking big and loud, it’s the only thing anyone ever hears when your name is spoken.

And whenever that happens to us, all the other words that make us the same disappear in its shadow.

Okay. I got it out.

Time to be quiet.

I can breathe again.