Daddy’s Silence
Some grief is immediate and unmistakable.
Other grief arrives quietly, shaped by absence, memory, and silence.
This piece sits with that type of grief.
Daddy’s Silence
Daddy is sitting next to Mother at the foot of the king-sized bed, but I cannot see his face. His large hands, with short grimy nails, are covering it, and his shoulders are shaking. The sound of his weeping fills the room, raw and unfamiliar.
Mother is sitting next to Daddy on the bed with pink and green flowers, but I can see her face. Tears stream down her caramel cheeks, catching the light as they fall, while her slender, perfectly manicured hands rest motionlessly by her side. Her eyes seem to stare through me, shimmering with a quiet grief that speaks louder than any scream.
Daddy is quietly lying in bed. I can see his dark ashen chocolate face, his cracked lips, and his open eyes staring up at the ceiling, frozen in silence. The faint smell of sweat and soil wraps around him. His hands are still by his side.
Mother is screaming and flailing her arms as she collapses to the floor. Her cries carve through the air, breaking the stillness as her face disappears behind trembling hands.
Daddy never gave hugs.
Daddy never said, “I love you.”
Mother always gives hugs.
Mother always says, “I love you.”
I never see Daddy.
I want to see Daddy.
I always see Mother.
Beware dwelling on loss alone, for the love we seek often hides in forgotten memories.
This piece is from Beware: Hidden Truths, a collection for reflective readers navigating grief and legacy, offering language for what many carry unspoken.
https://www.bewarehiddentruths.com/
