The Silence

Everyone says he's different now, that he's changed. I don't believe them. They act like he's dead or that he left and isn't coming back. He's the same, I know it. I know it deep down in my heart that he never changed. He was in an accident at his work; he welds pipes together. It was “bring your child to work day” and I was so excited I almost peed myself. The manager said he would be working on the assembly line that day while I stayed in a little room with a few other kids. A few hours after production began, a scream roared. It shook the natural hum of the whirling machines, making everyone stop. All there was shouting and screaming, pain coming from the person yelling and pain from those who were watching. Then, out of nowhere, the screaming stopped. You would have never heard such silence before this. It closed in on the factory, on the machines, stopping them in their rhythmic pattern. No one moved, let alone breathed. Slowly some one, there voice shaking, said that my dad was caught. Everyone at first thought he was dead until the paramedics arrived, and they discovered his heart was still beating. The beat was faint; slowly it pounded on, like a tired drummer. He was rushed off in the ambulance. He's practically brain dead, he can't think right. He can't talk, can't move very well, and he can't really doing anything alone anymore. But he's still the same. He still has that small, sheepish grin. He still makes the same looks with his eyes. I know he hasn't really changed. The man who used to play catch with me in the park until it was too dark to find the ball is still in there. So is the man who used to play checkers and dominoes with me all day. Even though he can't do all of that now, I think he can remember a time when he could. Mom says he's getting a little better each day; each day is another step to his brain getting healthier. But right now, I'm fine with the way he is; I know he isn't different and he hasn't changed. Not one bit.