man who knew.
Who had always known.
Who had chosen silence so many times that silence had become his only language.
Then my mother snapped his name.
“Roy.”
He closed his mouth.
Stepped back beside her.
Chose her again.
He would always choose her.
That was probably the saddest thing on the porch.
I allowed myself to feel sad about it.
But it changed nothing.
Eventually, they wore themselves out.
There was nowhere left for the yelling to go.
The porch became quiet.
And the quiet belonged to me because
