There was rainwater in his shoes. There were mud and slush on his pants. He was not speaking. He was standing by the door, holding his shoes with his left hand as water dripped on the mahogany carpet. My father’s silence was heavier than his dripping, wet rain coat, heavier than the suitcases we’d packed for Mama, heavier than the carpets and sofas and chairs, heavier than the rooftop, heavier than the house itself.
There was rainwater around the corners of his glasses. There was rainwater in his hat. Behind his round glasses I could see his wet eyes. I could not tell if the droplets on his wrinkled face were rain or tears or both.
He finally approached us and we stood. He was still holding his wet shoes.
“Your Mama,” he began but paused.
There was an unbearable silence again. Too heavy to explain, too heavy to break through. Too heavy for my 7 year-old brother.
“Your Mama is not coming back,” he finished and then fell on his knees, dropping his shoes, burying his face in his hands as if to hide his shame, his tears, his powerlessness, his failure.
It was heavy. The silence and the sobs of my father who no longer stood, no longer held us, no longer spoke.
We said nothing. My brother stared at my father. I went over to my father and touched his coarse hands. And then I felt my own tears, my own fears, and the heaviness of my weakness. I felt the weight of my father’s head on my shoulders; I felt the heaviness of our pain, our loss, our shame.
My brother still stood and understood nothing. He did not understand the heaviness of silence, the heaviness of pain, the heaviness of tears.