Thoughts about silence

When Sarah and I were in sixth grade, she didn’t speak

to her parents for nine days, a silent strike

in protest of their decision to keep her home

from the church camping trip.

Her silence was a demand, her silence

still contained words. I don’t know

what my silence is saying.

My mother and I sit on the couch

watching a movie from the 2000s

and everyone is carrying

huge purses and tiny dogs

and I barely catch a word of it

because I am trying so hard to listen

to the inside of my head

searching for the thing that is binding

my tongue. My mother probably thinks

I’m depressed. She thinks

whatever cloud has stretched over my life

is one that she saw in the Parenting Teenagers

Handbook. She is always

blaming things on herself, she probably

thinks this is a symptom of divorce

has probably been researching

family therapy, self-help books.

She is so good. It doesn’t occur to her

that all the clouds in this storm

stirred because of me, and opening

my mouth will only add hail

to the rain and thunder.

I watch her watching the movie

and imagine my silence as a bunker.

But when I really think about it

I don’t know who it’s protecting:

her

or me

or Him.