Silence runs in my family.

Silence,
like the kind my grandfather possessed,
always drowned out
everything else,
bouncing off the carpets
and seeping
through the walls,
the silence.

There in his chair
I still see him
sometimes,
watching his offspring,
little replicas of him,
scattered all over the floor
like from a Matryoshka.
Words would not come,
they had gone long ago, taken
in one fell stroke.

Still, he would watch
as they played
out scenes from his youth,
smiling all the while.
yet seeing nothing
but transience.

Silence,
of the kind that roared
in my ears like the sea,
like a million unsaid words,
while I lay sprawled
on the road,
beside my father
his white robe stained
with dirt.
My fake sheep-skin cap
offered little protection
against fear,
but I felt no pain.

“Son, are you hurt?”
was what I heard
from behind the visor
of his shiny red helmet,
the echo
both deep and hollow
at the same time,
rendering the voice
unrecognisable.

What I didn't see was
the face,
folding into grimace, as rock
pierced skin
and connected with bone,
forming a hole that we would watch
spout blood for weeks
to follow.

“Son, are you hurt?”
was all my father asked
from behind his red helmet
to the lamb
in sheepskin,
while all the while he bled
in silence.