Haunting Silence

“If Sam took a hearing test today, she’d fail it in the left ear, probably both.” The doctor points to diagrams, talks about adenoids and semi-clear liquid the color and consistency of honey.

Since January, I’ve watched Samantha’s world get smaller. She laboriously mastered “DaDa” and nothing more.

The doctor and my wife talk about tubes and advances in the technology of tubes.

I’m haunted by an image I haven’t seen yet—Sam unconscious, on a white hospital sheet awaiting surgery. I see this when I check on her.

In her crib, the sheets are pink, stuffed animals all around.From Guest Contributor Shane Borrowman

Death Of A Student

The email arrives just after 7:30 am, and its subject line is blunt: “death of a student”

You read this slowly. Twice. Open the message. In two sentences, the Dean of Students tells you everything: She was killed in a car accident. They’re working to remove her from your roster.

You delete the message, drag it back out of the Deleted Items folder, read it again.

The news isn’t public yet. You can’t say anything in class.

Her seat is empty. You pass out the day’s reading assignment and have an extra copy, which you quietly drop in the trash.

From Guest Contributor Shane Borrowman