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  • (Alternately: A Continued Saga of Diagnosability)

    My siblings and I- we are able to dilute the mother's episodic madness that has affected us all, and sometimes diffuse it. It is an effort that requires teamwork, and the kind of teamwork that is delicate and requires the exact right people such that the mother knows not the craft being enacted upon her.
    A brother is caught up in the excitement of his own, new life. A sister is unaware. Another sister is provocative.
    And me? What, pray, do I do?
    I'll tell you.
    I sit.
    I hear the rages and then the silence.
    I'll tell you this, too:
    I like silence. Quiet.
    I think silence is magnificent.
    I think silence is the universe, sometimes.
    I think it's the stars, and so are we, and so it is us, too.
    But not this kind. This kind of silence is born of a helplessness- this is the silence of We do not know what is to be done and we think if we worry it will carry us through. This is a silence where we sit and my sister bursts forth with retort and my father with logic and I with silence, silence and the salt of frustration and worry, because I don't know what to do.
    I don't know what I will do, either. Soon it will be just me here to dilute, to diffuse, to reason, and I fear it will not work. How can it?
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