Quiet after the storm
Wednesday, 08 September 2010 00:00 | 
Written by Damien | 
| 
| 
It feels like it has been centuries since that day my father returned with his face grim and his mouth even more of a line than usual in his face. He walked straight past me, without as much as a glance in my direction. He fairly stomped his way upstairs- taking the steps two at a time. I heard the slamming of a door. Then there was a semi-muffled argument. I could hear him threaten: “I know he knows …tell your son if he doesn’t tell us….”
The rest of the threat was inaudible. But whatever the rest was, it was enough for my mother to make sounds I’d never heard before from the stately lady - almost like a series of quiet whimpers. More muffled argument. More quiet whimpers.
Door opens- door slams shut. He is stomping down the stairs. Two steps at a time. He’s walking straight past me, without as much as a glance in my direction. I hear him swearing in the distance. Suddenly, before I knew what was happening, he returns to grab me and glare down into my face. His strong hands shake me very forcefully for what feels like eternity until I began rattling like some fearful snake.
The men went again the following night to search for her- my grandmother. They hadn’t the least bit of faith in the local law enforcement crew. They kept up the search for over a month. From time to time, the men alternated sitting down with me for a bit. The particular man would talk about this and that. Then he’d get around to asking about the things I loved doing with my grandmother and the places we used to go off alone.
A sort of quiet fell over our house during those days. There had been no other violent episode with my father and I’d taken that to mean that the worst was over. But, everyone looked so glum. In a huge show of childish hope and faith, I’d convinced myself that one morning I’d wake up to hear her downstairs worrying my mother just because she could.
But… one day, a group of men appeared at our house during dusk hours. The men beckoned at my father to join them outside. I immediately ran to a window to peer out at them. One man was pointing in the distance and using his hands to show some sort of measurement. Another had a sympathetic hand on my father’s back. They all left, my father included, in a hurry in the general direction in which the one man had pointed.
When father returned, his face was grim and his movements slow. He didn’t have to say it. The search for her was over- for them. There was an uneasy quiet in the house that night and many other nights for years to come. He never gave up searching for her. For years, he quietly dedicated some part of his day to following any faint lead- old or new. He also dedicated his entire life to never speaking another word, directly, to me.
(V).Damien
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|