Who’s Afraid of The Silence?

Ma always has this to say about puberty: “a boy has his tongue shorten the way his skeleton lengthens”. She left me wondering about the extent of her wisdom, when I discovered that Howard’s twelfth birthday wish had been a desire to eradicate speech altogether. There he was, leaning towards the flame-lit cake I had rushed to pick up from the confectionery that day; the sleek arches of his eyelashes reflecting the light from the flame, like halves of the sun placed next to each other. Yes, the sun and that was perhaps all I can remember of my Howard’s grin now. The next few days had been spent trying to cajole him to speak. I tried everything; teased, mocked, pleaded and threatened but nothing melted the frozen moon sunken in the sockets of his previous eyes. Did people think he was strange? Sure they did. Did I think so too? I am uncertain. I think I had digested this peculiarity, telling myself that he was merely stuck in a winding river of dreams and that one day, he would wake from it. But I am not sure anymore. Is it the day? Or has night fallen? How can I be sure when I don’t know when my Howard whose hair weaves white, wakes or sleeps? I’m tired. I’m so tired.

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