Mute

Mute

We all give up things
Relationships beyond repair
Chocolate, cookies, tasty deep-fried treats
Alliances to ourselves
Cars or houses too expensive to keep
Lives for countries
Max gave up words the day he turned twelve
Hasn’t spoken in two years
Doesn’t seem to bother him a bit
Though others grow irritable at having used
Every trick they know to woo him into speaking
Only to find he will not give up a single syllable

Four highly paid Psychiatrists, three Child Psychologists
One renowned Ear Nose and Throat Specialist
A Behavioral Modification Expert and one bully at school
(Who tried to exchange a beating for words)
All failed to produce a single whisper or moan
Early on, I tried to trick him into talking
Lined up cereal boxes on the table
Said, “Want Golden Grahams, Lucky Charms or Cheerios?”
He simply pointed to his choice
Next time I put the boxes away; just asked what cereal he wanted
He shrugged, sat there until I made the choice for him
Ate it all, not minding a bit that it was All Bran

I worry the most at night, between the evening news
And the sunrise edition I entertain a nagging thought
That he may have what his grandfather had
May be hearing voices telling him;
“Don’t say a word or your mother will die,
Your dog will run away, the world will explode.”
Worry that there are thoughts holding him hostage against his will
Surely he would have to be convinced of some ominous threat
To give up words
What if he thinks he has a direct order from God
Telling him not to speak until there is world peace or until
Something, somewhere happens?
I only cry in the bathroom
Sitting on the toilet with the shower going full blast
I’m his mother; for god’s sake there should be
Something I can do to reach him
His father left,
He was never good at waiting
The proverbial pregnant pause made him anxious
Too much silence made him fill in the blanks
Take up the slack, do something
I thought Max might say,
“Where’s Dad been lately?”
But he didn’t need words to figure it out

He has no other symptoms of his grandfather’s illness
But he is young and
There is time for him to get an idea
That he is Christ or Buddha and
Can walk on water
Or run in front of a moving car because he is Invincible
Indestructible and full of some power no one else has
Or he may think, like Grandpa,
That there are coded messages everywhere
Hidden in the newsprint (every third letter)
Or in the street signs (first letter only)
Or in special phrases heard on the television

Last night I dreamed that we were sitting on the patio
Max turned to me and said, “I’m working on a new theory
All about words and the energy they have,
The velocity by which they travel
The effect they have long after being spoken
About the struggle of communication
How easily words can be reduced to prattle
The power of silence
Its effect on people.”
For once, I was the one without words
And woke up crying,
Hoping that maybe all I have is another Einstein

Joy Arnett March 2008