Silent Night

It’s almost Christmas and my birthday.
My mother hasn’t talked to me for 2 months now. I don’t know exactly what I’ve done. I’m beyond my wits when she clams up like this because it has always been a sign that I have done something she didn’t approve of, or I haven’t done what she expected me to.
On the other hand, I haven’t communicated with my father for a little over three months now. Not after confronting his 25-year-old girlfriend. With my sister’s mother.
Silences mean more than words where my family, or what remains of it, is concerned.
I don’t know if I prefer the loudness of shouting and cursing or the loudness of silence. I’m guessing they’re equally evil.
There is another silence my family imbibes: the silence of emotion. For hugs, I turn to my pillows and my trusty teddy of 15 years. For warmth, I dive under layers of sheets.
This is the stuff telenovelas are made of. I’d kill for a regular life. But I’ve a feeling that’s just as evil.
Sometimes it’s hard to find goodness in this world, when your own heart has run out of it.