Silence is not Always Golden

Straight from the Heart


Maybe it was his up-bringing; his alcoholic dad; his parent’s divorce. Maybe it was WWII. Maybe it was the so-called friend who sold his cabinet shop while he was fighting the war. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Whatever it was, I’ve spent a lifetime trying to figure it all out. Like: why did he just sit and stare? What was he thinking about? What did he see? Why didn’t he want to talk to me? Why did he move so slowly and always look so sad?

He was a good man. Didn’t drink. Didn’t cuss. Didn’t scream and yell and never, ever lost his cool. He was gentle and quiet and patient and sometimes extremely humorous. Yet, I was afraid of him. Afraid of doing something wrong. Afraid of his scornful frown. Afraid of making too much noise, asking too many questions, sitting on his lap, hugging his neck. Afraid of his cold…

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