I remember peering around the doorway watching each plate shatter, splintering into a ceramic snowstorm at the hands of my mother. For some reason my memory has omitted the sound. I see her mouth open wide, her eyes and nose dripping. I see the droplets merging with the flying debris as she furiously throws her weight into the devastation. But I don’t recall the sound of her cries, or the crash of the plates.
Perhaps the silent anguish that descended on the room afterwards has stayed with me more. They say that don’t they? When there’s an accident, don’t worry about those that are screaming and crying. They are the lucky ones, for now at least. They’re alive and they’re breathing. Look to the silent ones, the ones that are fighting for breath or slipping away. Silence is danger. . .
Published in the Same online literary journal, Issue 12.1, 6th August 2018.
Blissfully Buried in Books 