She practiced as a little girl writing how her future name would look.
Her name has always belonged to her with repetitions of flowing crescents and tails curling under letter Y’s, T’s and P’s.
She still keeps a driver’s license with his signature.
The day before he died he’d driven his orange car to work, a place of helping people.
He’d worried where the money went and dreamt about building his boat, a dream of over twenty years in designing.
He never did sail the seas.
And he had kept his tongue still when she was in the room.
Not talking to those you love is forgetting to sign your name into life.
You can talk in so many ways.
Un-clutter your heart.
A sigh, a shift of your shoulders to a downward position, moving forward in your seat….
A letter with a few sentences can tell a whole life to another life.
Your voice can be heard in your eyes.
This isn’t for the melancholy candy.
It is factual.
A blatant incision about a silence that is never quiet.
A silence that was there when he started the car’s engine in the morning and spoke of stuff.
Stuff fills up the toys we leave on our shelf.
She admits she has spoken real words to a few men in her life and for different reasons they left.
She admits she understands the silence better, it moves her to find the words.
Will words break the silence apart ?
© K S Hardy 2011