The Weight of Silence

Author’s Note: This piece is an intimate excerpt from my upcoming trauma memoir. Through prose and poetry, it explores the enduring weight of childhood betrayal, the silence that followed, and the writing process that ultimately allowed me to reclaim my voice. *** When I was nine, my brother, two years older, contracted rheumatic fever. Well, that’s what the doctor said. The local clinic, a mile away, didn’t know what it was. Most days, he would journey through it with a weighted happiness. But as the sun slipped away and night came, a look of terror would creep across his face. The pain. His joints would ache so badly, twisting him into a screaming mess of swollen limbs and frantic shivers. We all waited in agony. Sleeping arrangements changed. He needed our mother next to him to get through the night. His eleven-year-old bravery disappeared with the dip in temperature at six o'clock. They bunked together, my sisters shared another bed, and I took my mother's spot, separate. My father had a bedroom all to himself. It was strange, yet normal; we had never seen anything different to know there was another way. Yet, it arrived one night and hasn't left. I still don't know what came first: the presence of him hovering over me, or the hand on my small chest. Cloying. Probing. Stilled, I lay there quietly, unbelief freezing me. My breath was held. A few minutes later, he lifted his hand and left the room. At some point, I know that I went back to sleep. I was the last to meet them in the kitchen the following morning. I remember entering quietly—a little more withdrawn than before. I eased down into the nearest chair, unsure of what had occurred. Did it happen? I felt unease, but I wondered if it was truly mine. Then he spoke, matter-of-factly, like he was mentioning the paper thrown on the front porch. "Atty, I thought you were Jay last night." He finished with a calm smile. I looked from him to my mother. She smiled at me, but the smile held something controlling. It said: keep the ugly out of sight. I looked back to him, and then to her. She had already turned away, back to preparing breakfast for my brother. No more words. Averted gazes shifted to more important things: his breakfast, my brother's, mine. I sat there watching it all. Silent. The plate placed before me did something to me. I looked down. Over time—I think it was about three months later—my brother healed. There were no more shattering bolts of pain, no more cries of agony. His suffering stopped. He returned to school, braver than before because he had a story to tell. He couldn’t wait for everyone to know how he had faced it and conquered the evil attacking him. Then, he moved on. Sometimes, I'd sit alone, lost in children's stories, dancing across the page. Of family vacations, playing at the seaside and with a dog called Spot. Sometimes, I still remember. So I write. *** *Excerpt: Excavation Holds Creation* I write my poetry for comfort. Only I know the weight of every word sitting on the page. It feeds me, keeps me centered— treading time, slipping through the cracks of relevance and apathy. Simple words threaded like cords raise sentiment between anecdote and evidence: Each letter rests with purpose, dedicated to the art of construction. Tales evolve— unhurried, then suddenly not— in their own time. They fill spaces, recorded for lifetimes, from lifetimes. And the cycle begins again: thumbs binding text, threaded like cords, words sitting on the page— emerging from my centre.