Inherited Silence

My grandmother wore silence

like a string of pearls—

clasped tight at the throat,

resting cold against her pulse.

It was polished by war years,

by letters that stopped coming,

by lullabies sung without words.

Her hands kneaded bread and grief alike,

never naming either.

The house remembered what she would not.

Floorboards knew the weight of her waiting.

Tea cups trembled with unspoken things.

Love, in her language, was endurance.

Pain was something folded

and tucked into drawers.

My mother inherited that necklace.

She did not choose it.

It was fastened on her wedding day

beside borrowed joy.

She wore it lighter,

but it still pressed into skin.

Arguments were swallowed whole.

Apologies lived behind her teeth.

“I’m fine,” she mastered—

a hymn passed down like scripture.

I learned the sound of almost.

Almost crying.

Almost asking.

Almost breaking.

And then it reached me—

this heirloom hush.

But silence, I found,

is not gold.

It tarnishes the heart.

So I unclasp it.

Lay it open in my palms.

Call it by its true name—

fear, loss, love denied breath.

My voice shakes

like a door opened after winter,

but it opens.

I speak for the girl

who kneaded grief into dough.

For the woman

who mistook quiet for strength.

I will not pass this down

as treasure.

Let what I inherit

be resilience—

and what I leave behind

be sound.