Poem is about 140 word, so over 100...sorry...still very much in progress.

My Father’s Silence

There is something essential
about my father’s silence.

I have heard him recite Chaucer
from memory, his tongue curls round
whan Zephayrus eke with his swete brethe
inspired hath in every holt and heath,
and the words come easily,
naturally.

He can talk forever about work,
about thought and theory;
his wit is as sharp as that Middle Age coot,
with an eye for the absurd and the hypocritical,
the gross and the awesome.

But
simple words,
get caught in lips pressed
suddenly together

I
me
my

cannot escape;
he has a terrible aversion
to first person.
Desperate jokes stand guard, terrible
in their nonchalance.

I wonder if he would answer
if I asked in
Middle English,
if I poured through his textbooks
to translate each word

to ask in a language he speaks:

Who are you?
Speak to me.

Kristin! That's so beautiful! And poignant.

I am Teppy. I have to fill every silence. I'm also the person in class who can't let the teacher's question hang for more than 30 seconds.

Kristin, lovely lovely lovely. But one thing:

if I poured through his textbooks

Is that "pored"?

Is that "pored"?

um. yes.

oops! I would like to say it was a clever metaphor, but no, just a typo.

In the spirit of the drabbles, I got it down to exactly 100 words and fixed that typo! Here's version 2 and all done for now:

My Father’s Silence

There is something essential
about my father’s silence.

I have heard him recite Chaucer
from memory, his tongue curls round
whan Zephayrus eke with his swete brethe
inspired hath in every holt and heath…
The words come easy,
natural.

But
simple words,
get caught in lips pressed
suddenly together

I
me
my

cannot escape;
he has a terrible aversion
to first person.

I wonder if he would answer
if I asked in Middle English,
if I pored through his textbooks
to translate each word,
to ask in a language he speaks:

Who are you?
Speak to me.

Heh. I did wonder, there...(about pour-pore)

Oh, Kristin - that second version is so damned crisp, it's a killer. Clean, and without an excess word in there.

Beautiful.

Thanks Deb! I'm much happier with it now.

Catching up...

The last thing she remembered hearing was a crackle, a spitting, something that might have been firecrackers. They were distant, then not so distant, then closeby.

Deb, I love the opening of your drabble especially, the sense of motion.

Freshly made bed. Faintest rush of air from the ceiling vent.

Connie, this line brings me into the hospital room with you. I can smell that rush of air.

Silence is a gift to my mother, a relief from a busy day of noise and kids.

This line is great, erika. I love the idea of silence as a gift.

Okay, I think I have a narrative drabble on this topic waiting in me too.

Hmmm.

Kristin, shite. You are three for three. Sweet cuppin' cakes.