Voices

And still I hear the voices from the old house on Waterman, living inside me now, the house from whose every room so many voices still call. The doors between the rooms, with their strong, solid statement of “No! ” were heroes who stood in the way of the general soup of sounds that tried to enmesh us all, but the doors' locks were in disrepair and the tongues of their latches frozen, and a child did not have a chance to collect his own, private thoughts, and so the sounds seeped through, and I didn’t know who I was amid the stream of shouts: “Drop Dead! You’re no good! ” from mother’s nervous years, from the kitchen and dining room. “Somebody broke it! Someone! ' “You’re stupid, you stupid, will ya! ” dad’s rage, from the living room, and from their bedroom, “Your hair! Can’t you wear it back, like my mother's? ” And “Not that suit with that shirt! ” and my grandmother’s voice, as well: “You’re a dicTAtor! ” she’d shout. and “always be one of the many, ” and my God, how did I grow up to be as sane as I am?