QUIET
In kindergarten, after confiding to her about my daily horrors, Mom showed up one day during recess and made a beeline for Jenny Willack, sticking a long finger in the blond girl’s face. “You l-l-leave my D-D-Danny alone!” Halfway across the monkey bars, Jenny began bawling and let herself drop to the wood chips.
Later that night, I woke up to find Mom sitting at the foot of my bed, singing without a stutter. Her voice sounded beautiful, so strong blaming God for stealing our voices.
***
After a few more years of speech therapy, something clicked. My stutter disappeared, something I later learned was fairly common.
Mom said I was so lucky.
I never again woke up to find her sitting on my bed.
***
Like my dad, I became a lawyer. I married another one, and we had two boys, neither of whom stuttered. We visited my parents every Christmas. Mom flinched whenever one of the boys repeated a sound. My younger son often had nightmares about her, the faces she made trying to tell him things.
***
After my dad’s funeral, she stopped answering the phone. She never learned to e-mail. Her letters often required two stamps.
***
A few weeks ago, Mom cracked her head on a coffee table, never waking up from the coma. I kept the eulogy brief, mentioning at the end how beautifully she sang.
David Erlewine lives near Annapolis. His work appears or soon will in places like FRiGG, The Pedestal, and Keyhole. He lovingly blogs at http://www.whizbyfiction.blogspot.com/.