On Silence

The machine is silent.

For the first time, the machine is silent.

And they are silent. All three of them.

The machine and the three people in the room are silent, because the fourth person in the room is silent for the very first time. And no matter where the nurse points that wand, there is only silence.

He stands, staring at the screen, at the small white fuzzy shapes against that black background. His eyes are unblinking, and his teeth are set tightly against each other. His adam's apple moves dramatically with each swallow of his dry mouth. He is unconscious of the hand which grips his own tightly. He doesn't pop his knuckles, as he often does when nervous. He doesn't move. Just keeps staring so hard for a wiggle that won't come. He listens so very hard for ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. He can't hear it, and each passing second breaks his heart again and again. His fingers begin to turn blue within her tight grasp.

She lies there, looking up over her shoulder, waiting for the small fuzzy object to turn over, to wave to her. She almost raises her hand to wave back a, "Hey, baby!" But she waits, knowing somewhere, somehow, that the shape will move. When several seconds have passed, she begins to feel sick. Her face is suddenly very warm and her lips burst open along with her tear ducts. The silence in the room is shattered by the crackling of that horrible wax paper on which she lies, by her sobs,  by her desperate, "Oh my God, no!" And she grabs her husband's arm with her other hand, pulling herself toward him and away from that terrible still and silent screen.

The nurse opens her mouth to speak, but no sound emerges. She can only stare at the most terrible thing she has ever seen, at the image of this couple, huddled against one-another. She wants to embrace them, to grab them tightly and cry with them. But as her mouth was silent despite her mind's desire to help, so her body is stiff. She turns off the machine and then whispers inaudibly, "I am so sorry," before turning from them and stepping outside, closing the door behind her. She collapses against the wall in the hallway, and her make-up begins to spread down her face.

Shakespeare's Sonnet #80

O how I faint when I of you do write,

Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,

And in the praise thereof spends all his might,

To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame.

But since your worth (wide as the ocean is)

The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,

My saucy bark (inferior far to his)

On your broad main doth willfully appear.

Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,

Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride,

Or (being wrack'd) I am a worthless boat,

He of tall building and of goodly pride.

Then if he thrive and I be cast away,

The worst was this: my love was my decay.

"All these endless nights and countless fights that turn us into who we hate to be."

So you wanted me to write about you.

I'll start now, as the elevator comes to take you away, in your fit of rage. As helplessness shines on me, a midnight sun. As the echoes of cabinets slammed and your curses still ring in my ears, I'll write of you.

I don't know how to make things right. I have never been good at making things right. I'm pretty good at keeping them from going bad, but if they do, I have no idea how to make them right. I don't even know what it is that we fight about. Something to do with me asking too much of you. Or asking something of you that you're simply not able to give. It's not in your character to give it, I think. So you get upset. Really upset. And I ask why, and you say you don't want to answer, so you leave, either only in your mind, or actually by getting out of bed and leaving the room or the loft.

You leave. I'm left.

I've been reading to you for the past few nights, to take your mind off of all that's bad in your world. I like to do that. I like to be your sanctuary. But I suppose there is a toll to get into the sanctuary, and maybe the toll is too much for you. I don't know. And I don't know how to ask less of you, but at the same time teach you to be strong enough on your own. I want you to be strong. To be someone capable of carrying yourself and others. To handle all your problems head-on, with maturity and strength, bravery. But perhaps I am a heartless instructor, treating you like a trainee in boot-camp as opposed to my girlfriend.

It is tough to be both your saviour and your Lover.

Our fights cripple me. Knock the wind out of me. Strike liquid into my tired eyes. Yank my chin downward. I am weak and stupid. Helpless. Our fights make me so very weary I could cry. could/would/should/do/will/have/am

Or perhaps I have romanticized my position in your life far too much. Maybe you only want a boyfriend. I don't know. I never know. But right now, I am sad. Left alone in my apartment when you stormed out, in search of solace. I hope you find yourself. I'll be right where you left me should you choose to look for me when you come back from looking for you.

I'll be here.

My tire blew out on the highway a few years back. I was coming home from a closing shift at my serving job. The right rear passenger tire. Sounded like it was falling apart, like chunks of it were just bouncing around and then falling. I pulled over, called someone for a ride home. I called my grandfather to ask if he could take me to get a new tire the next day. I woke him up, but he said, "Yeah, mijo, of course."

Early the next morning, he called me. He'd already been at the task of looking for a tire and a new wheel. I hadn't even started that part yet. We hadn't hung out in awhile, but he came to get me. I had to work at ten forty-five. But I called and told them I couldn't make it in on time. I wore a hoodie and sweatpants, and he offered me his jacket to keep me warm. I said, "No, thanks. I'll be fine."

We drove around all morning. First we went to the wrong shop. He had called so many, trying to find me a tire, while I slept selfishly. He'd forgotten which ones had said they had the right size, so we went into the wrong shop. My grandfather spoke for me, even, told them he'd talked to them. They told him that he hadn't. He apologized, and I felt guilty, because it should've been me right there, getting confused about my tire and the shops I had called. And I Loved him so much right then. He's always so strong. Even when he was corrected by this lady behind the counter, his head was held so high, his back so straight. Pride for my grandfather.

We found the right shop, and I told him I could afford it, but he told me to save my money and he handed the cashier his card. It cost him thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents. I grabbed the wheel and he grabbed the receipt. He put it in his wallet, with all the other receipts. And I Loved him so much right then. He's always so organized. Gratitude for my grandfather. Pride and gratitude.

We had the wheel, but didn't know the tire size. So we went to my car, still parked on the side of the highway, covered in smeared dirt from so much frequent snow melting. We both got out of the car, and I wrote down the size of the tire. He wrote a note saying that we'd be back. We went to go get a tire. He didn't want someone towing my car. And I Loved him so much right then. He's always so thoughtful. Admiration for my grandfather. Pride, gratitude, and admiration.

We went to the tire shop, and the wait was long. The shop was cold. He offered me his coat again, and then suggested that we wait for an hour at his house. I slept on his couch for the hour, and he woke me up so that we could go get the tire. He paid for the tire too, and asked the man behind the counter how much a full set of tires would cost. He wrote the price down, and put it in his wallet. Two hundred ninety three forty nine. I remember it still. We went back to my car, and he helped me change the tire. Mostly he just watched me change it. I think maybe he was proud of me right then, for changing my own tire. It's such a simple thing, but when I did it in front of him, I really felt proud of myself. I really felt like a small child, showing my artwork: "Grampa! Grampa! Look! Look what I can do!" When it was all done, he offered to stand outside, to let me know when my lane was clear so that I could be safe about getting back onto the highway. "I'll give you the signal when it's safe, mijo." And I Loved him so much right then. He's always so Loving. Love. So much Love for my grandfather. Pride and gratitude and admiration and Love for my grandfather.

I realized that day that I would always need his signal to know that it's safe. And I realized that for as long as he can raise his hand to let me know, he'll be there to give me that signal.

I am thought of at strange times. And my heart skips pleasantly when the phone ring startles me.

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In highschool, there are favorites of all sorts. The students all have a favorite class (Mr. Herndon's Psychology class), a favorite teacher (Miss Mahoney), a favorite lunch (taco salad), and even a favorite janitor (Mr. Boyle, the man must be at least 87), he thinks. He thinks perhaps it is a contest, who the favorite principal is. Certainly it cannot be the main one, nor the vice (they're always out at lunches and the kids never see them), and it is probably not John (that guy, honestly, he's a prick, always handing out tardies and detentions), the other guy, our protagonist cannot think of his name right now, he's mainly only here for the paperwork aspect of it. But perhaps it is Susan, with her plump fat rolls and her flowery office. Her doughnuts and sweet rolls she passes out. He thinks it is probably himself, the favorite principal. He is a friend to the students. He knows this makes him seem soft, but he thinks he is fair. The teachers like him as well. He is understanding about their needs, and he addresses them as equals, not as their superior. He's younger than most of them, but has earned their respect by being articulate and by showing them that he is fair to both sides: administration and teachers alike.

He stands up from his desk, putting his brown loafers on the tightly stretched bluish grey carpeting in his office and pushing himself out of his black swivel chair. He likes to start off the mornings with a walk through the school, checking in on some favorite teachers of his and making sure things are off to a good start, no kids kissing in the hallways (or if they are at least not groping one-another, he is lenient), no classes upsetting their teachers, no spills this early on the tiles of the corridors. He always pisses in the bathroom by the Foreign Language rooms. He finds these are cleanest, though he can't be sure why the janitors favor these bathrooms over the others. Or perhaps it's the children who favor the others over this one? Regardless, he pisses in the urinal closest to the French classroom (the one closer to the Spanish classroom is missing the little pink hockey puck that makes the piss not smell).

He checks his reflection in the mirror as he washes up. He keeps his hair cut very short, almost buzzed. He wears a short beard as well, barely longer than a five o'clock shadow. All of his hair is jet black, wavy, so that this hairstyling looks good on him, makes him look younger. His eyes are a dark brown, with even darker circles underneath them, not from lack of sleep, but because he is not caucasian. The protagonist is not from America. He came here when he was young. He is from Israel, though he is not Israeli. He is Palestinian.

And his father was Palestinian. But that was thirty years and one day ago. And from his own eyes in the mirror he turns before they remind him of too much.