That was when I realized the women had not been rejecting my father.
Someone close to our family had been frightening them away.
Twelve Years of Silence
My mother, Celia Morgan, p.a.s.s.e.d away twelve years ago.
I was old enough to understand what loss meant.
But I was not old enough to understand what it could do to the person left behind.
Before Mom was gone, my father, Thomas, filled every room he entered.
He sang while making coffee.
He told jokes so badly that he usually began laughing before reaching the ending.
Music played constantly inside our home.
Old soul records on Sunday mornings.
Jazz while he cooked.
Classic rock whenever he repaired something in the garage.
Mom used to say Dad was incapable of experiencing silence without trying to improve it.
After her farewell service, the house became painfully quiet.
The record player gathered dust.
