You grew up in singing fields

Early sunrise, blinking bleary,

Brothers boisterous, sister odd,

Breaking the rules as you ran carefree,

Learning from the world,

Surrounded by ancient tea leaves watching over their own young.

 

You grew up without ambition.

You knew much, but kept it hidden.

Quiet, gentle brow as you helped others along

While they pushed you and controlled you

As long as you held your tongue.

 
You grew up and married, and she was loud

You loved each other,

She taught you to be proud.

You grew around each other

Rough brown fingers curled around a cigarette

On the sidewalk after you shopped for her medicine.

Decades later, in the early night,

She cried and struggled,

And then made no more sound.

 
You grew up among loud forces

Now the silence echoes off beige walls

Your one bad ear mocks the other,

The only victim of the deafening hush.

Now, your arms tremble under heavy grocery bags

And your legs ache as you stop for breath

Your glasses give you trouble

That cough has gotten worse

A tremor runs through your muscles

As you wrap old arms around me

When I visit

I make it a point to quiet down.

I’ve been told I am too loud.

—–

Daily Prompt: Tremble

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