24
White Noise
He was a tree: sturdy, unmoving. But trees had the luxury of moving their branches; this he was denied.
His family were birds alighting, daily visits, much flapping of wings. His mother filled him in on family and friends—every little detail. His father gave him football scores, weather reports. His brother talked of television, parties, girls.
Do not tell me these things, he thought. These people are lost to me.
Is there nothing they can give me, he thought, to make this stop?
And always his family’s endless chatter. He knew they meant nothing by it, but it hurt him to hear of things he could no longer take part in. He wished to tune their voices out.
I am not who I was, he thought. Why must they stay the same?
He learned instead to focus on the noises they made. Hi
