Sabina Ramon, “Kitchen Scene”
I picked you up from school just after 4. The car ride was silent and awkward– like they’d always been these days. They said this phase would only last the first few years of your teenage life, but you’re already 17 now, and I don’t see you speaking anytime soon.
I tried to ask some questions about your day. But they were only met with grumpy grunts or half parted lips– like you wanted to speak to me, but just couldn’t get the words out.
I wonder where I’ve gone wrong. What I might have said or done to make you feel like you could no longer speak to me– but nothing comes to mind. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’ll have to rip those rose colored glasses off my face and face the truth. Face you.
But as I stand in front of your bedroom door, fist raised just high enough to knock, I am reminded that my belly is the brightest shade of coward yellow. And behind that door is the uncharted territory of the place where I am no longer welcome.
I’m sure you think it’s dramatic. That I act as if your silence forms horns from the top of your head. But the clawed beast I find locked in a cage of its own making no longer feels to me like my child.
When dinner comes, we sit in silence at the table, too far for comfort but close enough to still feel like family. I want to tell myself that this feels just like before. I try to pretend that when I see that disinterested look on your face, that I don’t feel the pain of every wall closing into me. But I do.
Every part of this routine hurts. And I hate that the silence is so loud I can hear the broken fridge buzz in the kitchen. I hate that I can hear the fiddly tapping of your sneakers against the wooden floor– the same sneakers I’d told you a million times to take off at the door. I hate all of it. All it does is remind me of how empty it is.
“Would you like a second helping?” I ask when I hear the sound of your fork scraping against your empty plate. But I know the answer is no.
You shake your head.
“You’re full?” I ask, and immediately I question myself as to why. Clearly, the answer was obvious. But maybe I just wanted to make conversation. Maybe I subconsciously believed that would fill the space.
You lift your head for once and it feels like progress. Your eyes dart back down to the phone clutched tightly in your hand, then back to me. You nod.
“Good… good. Guess I’m alright at this whole dad thing, huh?” I joke. But I don’t dare expect a laugh. And you don’t.
The silence stretches for what feels like a year.
I want to speak again, maybe even apologize for daring to joke with you– but the words stick in my throat. It feels like barbed wire has been wrapped around my neck.
But you open your mouth before I can find any words to speak. And your voice, that gentle lullaby, makes me freeze. I don’t dare move– like I’m afraid any sudden movement might frighten you out of speaking to me. And I am. I am afraid.
You inhale once, carefully, as if trying to choose your next words, “…Dad?”
