I have read all things, the open and talkative gardens,
and attested to the incurableness of words,
of the pencil.
One day I saw an insect changing place
it knew something.
And so I pondered the positions of death,
of the cube, the pyramid and the cylinder.
My dad had a clock, a small, round table clock, made of brass. It stood on four curving legs. The pendulum, like a George V silver coin, swung in between. It would invariably catch the eyes that darted in that direction. How did the medallion swing incessantly forever without fail?
This morning, the silence felt numbing. Ella wanted to say something to break out of it, but the absence of noise engulfed her. Just like Lake Michigan was covered in the blanket of snow, she was wrapped in the cocoon of silence.
Like Ella, many of us have felt the different effects of silence.
The Antonym put together a diverse panel to discuss International Mother Language Day. Pina Piccolo and Lance Henson participates from Italy. Lucia Cupertino joins us from Chile. Sumitro Banerjee participates from India. Dipen Bhattacharya participates from California.
I try to catch them as they are but they are hard to tell apart without their clothes which they change as they pass from room to room in this house of many doors where each room has a two-way door that opens to a special key that locks letters and sounds in just-so strings.