I wrote this essay in 2016. It was my first attempt at writing since the death of my son, two years earlier.
The house is silent. CNN has been muted. The kitchen radio and my phone are off. It’s just me and the computer. The cursor flashes expectantly.
Don’t await greatness today, computer. We’re in hostile territory here. Because, now, the thoughts I have so carefully muffled behind a wall of noise are free and they want to be heard.
I was a freelance writer until January 27, 2014. That’s the day my 27-year-old son, David, died.
And here I am, two years later, in my office, at my desk, attempting to trick my mind into thinking I’m working on a piece for publication.
It was my therapist’s idea. She thought doing something that I once found satisfying might give my fractured life some structure. So I look upon this as a homework assignment which I will hand in to my teacher next week. I’m prepared to spend an hour here, even if it’s just to watch the impatient pulsing of the cursor.Continue reading “The Sounds of Silence”