A History of Speech
When the world began, there was a lot of quiet. Eventually some of us started to speak. The wind had something to say—but it was very dull, small talk, about the weather. The trees may have answered but only to be social. Chatterers and whisperers and red-blooded howlers sparked the speech of the earth until one day a flame leapt up as something said, “feed me.” And then in the echo of that magnificent moment, something else said, “no.” These were the rudiments. God, inspired, painted a linoleum kitchen with wooden cabinets and an expandable table. Blue flowers in the center—they would hardly interrupt. And the drama unfolded. The child took off his baseball cap and sat down at the table. “Is dinner ready yet?” The mother in the green tea apron turns on him with all the ferocity she brought out of the jungle and said, “Set the table or get out of my way.”
The child grew up and went to college and after joined an anti-war movement. Mother and father slept late and read the paper every morning over coffee. Their sadness was strange and unexpected. They felt that time had slowed to those moments in bed, when they were just waking, and the house was silent, and their lives seemed to stretch forever behind them. Then the boy met a girl. They dated for a month before he took her to the nicest restaurant he couldn’t afford. He had written it out—he had practiced before a mirror—yet still he hardly knew what to say. Had it ever been said before in the history of the world? The waiter came and poured them soda. They were still too young to drink wine. He looked down at his duck when he said, “Sara. I love you.”
When mother and father heard that their boy was getting married, they cooked lobster and mussels in white wine. “Where’s the pepper?” said mother. “The onions?” The doorbell rang. Outside on the porch, Sara said, “Do I look alright?” The boy kissed her quickly. “Everything will be fine.” They all sat down to dinner lit by long white candles and then father bowed his head. The smell of rich food was warm and comforting. In the darkness they created, when every eye was shut, the boy thought maybe it was time to get a bigger place in Chicago. Sara wondered, at the end of the night, would she kiss her mother-in-law’s cheek? And Mother imagined the child that would be born at the same hospital where she had given birth to her son, and father was so proud he nearly cried when at last he said, “Amen.”
After the wedding, father and mother, exhausted and full of champagne, laughed in the living room. “How young they are,” said mother. “Do you remember our wedding day?” “Not at all,” said father. The couple caught a midnight plane to Hawaii. They spent the honeymoon in a cheap hotel. They took long walks and collected seashells. They ordered room service and went to a luau on the beach. They met another couple and went out to dinner with them. Sara found them very unpleasant because they were Republican and talked with their mouths full. Back at the hotel, he said, “Why do you always have to judge everyone?” And she said, “If that’s what you think of me, then maybe this was all a mistake!” He went downstairs to the bar. She fell asleep on the sofa shuddering with tears. The next morning they cried and made love and said, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over again.
Winters later, on the night of the accident, Mother answered the phone. She turned to father but could not speak. Their son had died instantly. The two of them got into bed and turned out the last lamp. A cat napped on the bookshelf. They held each other. They grieved. In a year they took a trip to France. They spent long mornings in bed and ordered warm croissants that they could not eat. The moments stretched on forever. At home again they unpacked their things. Sara visited often and sold the big house in Chicago. In a decade she remarried and didn’t come anymore. On her wedding day, father brought her flowers and new china, and took her hands in his, and said, “We loved him so.” Winters and winters passed. Mother took cooking classes and father read books on the Cold War. Mother made father take ballroom dancing with her to keep in shape. One night he sat reading at the kitchen table in his dancing shoes while mother washed up. She paused a moment. She let the water run. “Dear,” she said. He looked up, and his glasses slid down his nose. “We’ve finally done it,” she said. “We’ve done it all.”
He put the book down. “It all went so fast.”
When the world ends, there isn’t much left to say. The sun sets. The trees rustle as they did before. One long moment stretches forever and ever. The silence is more empty because we were here.
Kelly McWilliams ‘06
