Unspoken Silence

I wanted to make homemade mashed potatoes for dinner. They are his favorite, and I was making a traditional Sunday dinner anyway: 7 pound chicken, mashed potatoes, asparagus, and biscuits. My daughters and I had baked a cake early in the afternoon, a special treat usually reserved for parties and birthdays, but tonight it seemed needed. We were pretending, after all. We do that a lot lately.

Peeling potatoes is thought provoking. Standing over the sink, slow upward strokes, bits of brown skin falling into a beige plastic Jewel bag. It makes me feel compelled to write, to put down all my thoughts in hopes they will one day be appreciated. I desperately want to get it all out, the chatter that goes through my head. If I can get it down on paper, if I can make it real, it cannot haunt me.

I keep peeling, keep stroking. We have been pretending all day, pretending that everything is fine, that we are functioning normally. To the naked eye we are; we are probably even doing well to most. Fresh breakfast of bacon and eggs, shopping for an early birthday present, take-out lunch, baking in the kitchen on a Sunday afternoon, the table fully set for a full dinner. We have made love, twice, looking to fill the void. The kids have scurried around the house, building a fort in the living room, playing school and house, arguing and bickering, figuring out how to resolve it themselves.

But there is an unspoken silence. Listen, do you hear it? It's there. The words do not need to be said, but they are screaming from the bottom of my lungs. Unhappiness. Depression. Failure. Anger.  Suicide.

The peeler slips, and knicks my knuckle. I drop it and instinctively suck the wound. It doesn't hurt more than a smart, yet tears come to my eyes.  I shake them away, shaking away with it the emotions of the day.  I must pretend.  I must press on.  I must keep silent.