West End AudioBook
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
before my mother drank herself to death. I knew her as a gentle creature who fed wild squirrels from her hand on the back patio. At midday, she'd stand very still calm, peanuts laced in the fingertips of her outstretched hand. The squirrel a female. Her babies came later, approached with caution across the railing onto the window sill. Grab the nut run to the other side of the patio, where the squirrel peeled back the shell, ate the meat, then returned for another and another. For a while. This girl's became my mother's greatest pleasure. When the female squirrels stopped coming, my mother worried, but the baby squirrels continued to visit. Then the cubs must have grown left the nest because one by one they disappeared until only a single squirrel came to the daily meeting. That winter, my mother's heart sucked itself dry. Familiar faces appeared distant relatives long ago friends who talked our concerns away with assurances for tomorrow and beyond. A little honeys. It'll be okay. I brought the eggplant casserole green dish. She was a wonderful woman. Call if you need anything. Sarah and I stood at the door where someone's aunt told us to stand. We pointed people who carried in food to the kitchen. Guided people with flowers to the dining room, appointed the rest of daddy who sat on the couch, gaze glued to the floor. We didn't have to say anything and no one asked. The familiar strangers came and went and with um, her mother are hopeless youth. Our language. The house became quiet. I couldn't remember the last complete sentence. I spoke or heard. I couldn't remember the last partial sentence I'd said to my father or he to me. My sister and I exchanged words hushed, sometimes soundless breasts only. We knew the meanings. Four. We lived our lives in half words, pale sounds that sunk into the silence in ideas of what we had to do. Next. Breakfast, school, homework, laundry, dinner dishes, Bed. This soundless process became our lives. A strange off balance way to live. But we did it for some months, content not to break that pattern. One cold February morning, a descending snowstorm blocked the roads, locked us indoors, kept us from going to school. Our father, from his work, our first full day alone together in the house, Sarah and I said at the painted brown kitchen nook, picking at our cold race and brand the milk just tang enough for us to question the freshness. A tapping noise brought her eyes to each other's. Then silence wend. Sarah exhaled with barely enough boys to make a sound much beyond the breath itself. Yeah, my voice. Not much stronger. We returned to the serial tap temp tap. Her gaze followed the floor to the sink. The counter, the back door, the door. I shook my head. No, not today. At midday in this storm wind, I slipped from the nook. She followed. We stood somewhat unnerved When the tapping came again, we could see through the glass in the door. No one stood there. I moved to the windows to get another view of the patio. Leaned over, heard shuffling than rattling against the window. We jumped. A squirrel clattered against the window caused us both the momentary and laughable fright. Sarah touched my arms. We each took a deep breath, our first that winter. The squirrel, the female or one of the Children we didn't know and could never tell anyway, gave us a quizzical look stretched up against the window. her little paws stretched against the glass. Tears world quiet, unmoving. We held our breath each other. I tried not to let out the flow of emotions. The winter built up father's footsteps heavy on the linoleum came towards us. We straightened. What's going? Sh We both hushed him. His rough, dry boys might drive the squirrel away. It's the squirrel, Sarah said. He looked puzzled. She motioned toward the window. The squirrels Mom used to feed. She used to give them nuts. We'll give them some. He waved his hands at us. Where are they? Sarah pulled open random cabinet doors. I don't know. I open the opposite cabinet doors. Well, look, Look, they have to be here. Father took to the drawers. Three of us search for a bag of peanuts. Mother bought for the squirrels. Hid from us to deteriorate. Snacking. Oh, you must be hungry. Father gazed out the window at the back yard, covered in snow. The portrayal ings that power lines all draped in sheets of white. The squirrel nervous. Waited at the end of the banister. Peanut butter. Get the peanut butter. Well, he ate it. Sarah, reach for the jar. Certainly, Father assured us it's peanuts, isn't it? I grabbed for the bread. Just spread it on, he said. More animated than I've ever seen him. We did wait. He can't eat it like that. Break it up. He put his hands in the mess with ours. Of course we knew, but at the moment that strange, unsettling yet somehow comforting moment we all needed to take part. Sarah set the plate on the patio just outside the back door. The squirrel chattered, shuttered its head from her to the door. The window, its tail jerking back and forth as if with nervous jitters, then approached the plate, took a piece and skittered back to the railing to eat it. Dad ordered us away from the window. The little squirrel tittered, dense, delicately tale flitting to take more food. We backed out of the kitchen. Something shifted inside the house, the rooms warned. The silence baited. The house took on old noises. The refrigerator hummed. The kitchen like buzzed switch is flicked with their old sticky clicks. Our voices returned. We spoke more than mere sounds. We broached full sentences, but I don't know if we ever surpass that. We've never been a family of paragraphs or stories. Laughter rarely rose to the ceiling. Now, with one of the speakers forever hushed, we were destined to be something less than complete. Winter dissolved into spring. The strawberry's mother, planted last summer, grew green, red, wild. We left nuts out all the time. Sometimes girls, Aktham. Sometimes they'd sit until the birds got thumb or the ants swarm them. Sunrise reopened in summer, but never again did we hear our names called from the front patio as we walked up the street. Never again did the light intonation aboards followers through the night. Not too late. Never again upon a return would we be met with a drunk asleep on the table with just enough consciousness to whisper too late when we passed through the kitchen to go to bed.
Tags
Awkward, Believable, Bold, Brave, Calm, Deep, Genuine, Sad, Serious, North American (General)