Sharp Tongue by Nela Dunato
We are waiting for the storm to come, the cats and I. We sit by the window, our legs folded beneath us and watch as the trees wave the wind onward. The cats are always near…enchanted by my silence and the way my hair lifts even when there is no breeze to stir it. I shoo them away so that I can shift to the side. My feet have fallen asleep from sitting on them. A sumac tree that has grown too close to the house, grates against the siding like an old woman hacking to clear her throat. My own throat has closed down on all the words inside, like a dam that has grown over the years. I haven’t spoken a word since last Tuesday. These words, they have piled up at the base of my throat and no matter how often I swallow or cough, they will not budge…not even one little word will loosen to allow the flow. So, I sit and wait for the storm to come and the cats gather around me in silence. We wait and we do not speak.