Silence Was Punctuation – Stylized Prose
Makari | The Notebooks: Process and Drafts — Practicing Out Loud — One Scene, Three Ways
This is Post 3 of a 4-part series. All posts in this practice are tagged “Form Speaks Back.”
To start from the beginning → Read Post 1.
Uncle Joe leaned back in the old chair like he owned the silence between sentences.
“You know,” he said, “when I was a boy, long before your generation decided punctuation was optional, every pause had meaning. We didn’t just speak our minds; we composed ourselves. A sentence was an act of civility. And silence?” He gave a little shrug. “Silence was punctuation too.”
From across the room, Sam didn’t even blink.
“Uncle Joe, your generation didn’t have much to say. You needed punctuation. And silence.”
Joe chuckled, slow and amused, like someone pulling the cover off a memory and finding it still sharp underneath.
“Maybe,” he said. “But we earned the silence, kid. We sat with it. Let it ferment. You lot? You fill every space like you're afraid of being alone in your own echo. Words come cheap now—fast, loud, and half-finished. It's not that you don’t have anything to say. It’s that you haven’t learned how to listen yet.”
Sam tilted their head. Not defiant. Curious.
“First of all, your generation was just as afraid of being alone, if not more. We do listen. And we speak. You call it noise. I call it contribution.”
Joe paused, eyes narrowing. Not angry. Just assessing.
“‘Contribution’ is a noble word,” he said. “But noise wears the same coat if you never take time to tailor it. I’m not knocking passion. God knows the world needs more of it. But passion without aim?” His voice dropped low. “That’s fire with no hearth.”
“Maybe we’re not looking for your hearth,” Sam said. “Maybe we’re lighting something else. You all built the room. Sure. But now you want to lock the door behind you. We’re not just speaking—we’re undoing walls with our words.”
Joe didn’t answer at first. When he did, his voice was quieter, almost tired.
“Walls hold up roofs too, you know. Take them all down, and the sky doesn’t always feel like freedom. Sometimes it just rains.”
Sam nodded.
“Then we’ll learn how to dance wet.”
A beat. No movement—just the weight of what had landed.
“You taught us silence,” Sam said. “Now let us teach you sound.”
From the kitchen, I called out. Warm. Anchoring the air back into something ordinary.
“Come on, kids—it’s time for dinner. Sam, grab the wine Uncle Joe brought us, will you? I’ve been looking forward to sharing it.”
A pause.
Joe and Sam glanced at each other. Neither victorious. Both a little altered.
Joe stood, brushing off nothing in particular.
“Just don’t open it like you open conversations,” he said. “Fast, loud, and half-finished.”
Sam gave a crooked grin and picked up the bottle.
“Don’t worry,” they said. “I’m composing myself.”
Footsteps approached the kitchen. Sam first. Joe trailing, slower but not grudging. From the other rooms came the sounds of gathering: clinking plates, laughter rising like steam, the soft pop of a cork.
The kitchen opened wide to the room they’d just left—one glance back told me enough.
I turned just in time to catch the look they traded—half truce, half something harder to name.
And I smiled.
They’ve got each other.
Keeps the edges sharp... and the hearts soft.
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