{personal narrative essay} 4-5-22

     Early May 2009. Sitting in front of my expecting mother, six months in,  due in September. She’s a long-haired blonde, wearing her blue lace robe, I sat within her land of pillows. I'm 3 years old. I love a comfortable place, a protected space. I’ve gotten used to waking up in quiet rooms; little talking. I still have never once spent a day away from her, I couldn't imagine it. She starts reciting words, elegantly spoken. I love this song. A copy of Amelia Bedelia, the one from her childhood, she always shared with me. I adore the look of her reddened fingertips pinching the pages.

I admire the forms of her activated lips-talking. The sun touches me, urging me again. The antiphony reaches around my head and I watch the trace of light coming in from the windows. Then I noticed a quiver in her once steady tone, a crack from a tall standing voice. Her face is now rosier than last time. Her lips are trembling now. I don’t like it. She’s threatening to erupt. If she’s not happy, I won’t be happy. The book tumbles from her lap when she picks up my hands. Her obsidious eyes eating mine. “God, why don't you talk to me?” I could give her everything and nothing all at once.

    Her face pours with heat, Angry at me. Her hands squeeze mine a notch tighter. “Why!! I need to hear you say something.” I’m scared. I start crying along with her. I understand nothing. Ashamed, she lets go of me and puts her face in her hands. She’s talking to herself.  I’m looking around for a reason. I dry my face and focus on the book in front of her. A book. Why do we have books? I’m tracing the light that this item consumes as I stare. An object like the rest of the companions of this place. Is there really something inside me that’s so important that needs to be shared? Something about my mother made her Beautiful. The edges of her pearly cheekbones. The Starfall eyes. The way she smiles at gloomy-looking strangers. But, there’s even more here.

     She rubs her eyes one last time and looks down at me. Ready to start over. “I’m sorry hon…I’m ready when you are, Ok?” But she’s not. She won't be. Monologues run laps in my head. She demands it of me. I can see something change in her when she talks. I don’t know how to feel about it. I’m too young to have feelings, it’s too much work. I don’t like the sound the comforter makes when she gets up from the couch. If I spoke, would she stay? I started to realize my mutism hurt her. Diagnosed harshly. Before that, I lived in a place of noise. Cold rhythms. Anything I say wouldn't be enough, or maybe even too much.

    She takes her medication. 500 milligrams of Depakene, the doctor said it wouldn’t hurt the baby. Her face looks loudly at me. Especially when it gets quiet. Talking is a Brave act. I know this now. Most people have no issue with it but after countless words spoken everyone seems to be a little less of themselves. As a small child, I once looked out of the window and saw a mysterious forest in our own backyard but when you grow and your legs get taller, you’ll look outside and only see a little garden.  Being “late” was never even a consideration, But flashcards after alphabet puzzles and speech therapy after this all I wanted was to commit.

     I knew how to. But I could see something the longer I watched that window view. Shimmering sounds, intrepid banter. The talk of the world intimidated me but then you listen closely and it sounds reasonable and maybe-just maybe it could be comfortable. I could get used to it, just like I could get used to being a big sister. In a dangerously stunning way, we are pushed to go farther, especially when the forest outside isn't so fascinating anymore.

    You’ll then suddenly face a painful desire to flee the country and see what else you can have. “Mm..” surprise insured. She rushed to my side. Her face was reddening again. I was directed at the book. I’m so close. “Milia.” I point. Amelia Bedelia- I like that story. She gasped and wallowed to me. Crying, I let her. My first audible word. It would take me years to muster the courage to simply say “hello” to a friend or family member, Trusting them would prove to be even more challenging. We spent the rest of the morning consuming my favorite books. Everyone I pointed to, she eagerly read to me. I love this song. You get what you want when you ask for it. You get what you need when you speak.