This is a piece for the great-big noisy world, which wants me to believe that validation is found in the effluence of my words and opinions. And that want of the world–if I might opine–is pure bolgna.
Silence: the primal memory of amniotic living, of safety, of floated balance; the blue velvet blanket of childhood pulled over the ears, the whirr of nothing but sleep under that blanket; the Cathedral before the wedding, before the vows are said, before the tears, before the candles are lit, before the janitor’s key unbolts the door, before his boots clop down the marble aisle; the labor before the push; the distance between the scooped shell of water and the christening; the bed before the casket, the place where the family whispers that you were a good man, or tells you to go on, or holds your wrist, pumping, pumping, pumping to rest at last.
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