In the entire seasons that I spent amidst people called home, most of the times there was silence around the house. Not the peaceful, tranquil quiet but an eerie silence. You see the difference… quietness is just slowing down the fast pace of life , being at peace , and silence is dead… it is like crumbling up on a dark room holding back all the edges of your existence and ur clothes… even the curl of ur toes.
Silence of the ghettos where I could hear the clock ticking and my own hissing heartbeats .
And then there were times, terrible times when the floor of the house smelled of land mines , mines stuffed and your one footstep, ur one utterance of a word would blast the mine … wounding you and the others in a deep cut… oozing tears of blood , again followed by the silence of the cemetery, where lay buried the happiness, the fluttering giggles of children that usually occupy a home . The happy faces.
And in those days I walked , very carefully … not wanting to leave my footprints . I walked on my toes fearing that I may not stir the air , the poisonous air that floated through that concentration camp . Fearing that I may not get strangled and choked on my own tears .
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