July 2005 Archives

I put my son on a train today. My 13 year old son. On a big, fast-moving, tin-can of death. Ok, so maybe it wasn't a tin-can of death but it was big and it was fast. And he looked so small and helpless standing next to it.

He's not small, really. He's a 5'7", 160 lbs., broad-shouldered, prepubescent boy. I KNOW, imagine how huge he'll end up! But I'm not talking size here. Or even his age. He's been through a lot in his 13 years. He tends to take things very personally. He's as soft-hearted as they come and he loves his Mom, sometimes to the point where I just want to say "Cut it out, will ya?! I need oxygen!!!"

I would be writing about my son on his trip with my mom but THEY HAVE NOT CALLED ME SINCE THEY WENT TO MAINE ON FRIDAY.

I know there is no phone up there. I know there is no cell phone. I know there is no TV, no video games, no NOTHING and I can’t imagine that they would be staying there for this long. But they must still be up there because NO ONE HAS CALLED ME.

There are times when silence is a comforting blanket, a gentle wraparound of no sound that buffers us from the jangling noise that surrounds and drowns. The sort of smothering silence that a layer of snow brings, an insulation, a protection.

There are times when silence echoes with fear, the kind of fear that overtakes you in the dark while you stumble through a damp, dark basement, listening for footsteps that you imagine are right behind and you can almost smell the fetid breath that raises the hair on the back of your neck.