By Matthew Torralba Andrews
“Speak low,” she told her son, like the song, when he got excited and words collected in his mouth, built up, when he tried to force them out, all of them, at once, shouted them in spurts, fragments, failed starts.
“Speak low,” she told him, when he had a class presentation, when he pulled the straps of his backpack onto his shoulders, grabbed his lunch box from the car, acted as though he hadn’t practiced the night before, quieted his voice, slowed it down, so that the words would come out, one by one.
“Speak low,” she told him, when he had his first date, when he sighed, rolled his eyes, insisted that he was fine, believed that she hadn’t heard him rehearsing, quiet and slow, behind his bedroom door.
“Speak low,” she told him, when he went to his first job interview, when his words flowed, exited smoothly, when she said it more as a benediction, a blessing, that he was fine, that that nervous boy wouldn’t resurface, remind her of what she might’ve done, said, to make something so basic so difficult.
“Speak low,” he did, so low she didn’t hear, when he visited but spent his time in his old room, when his clothes loosened, hung on him, when his hair lengthened, grew unkempt, when his visits became calls, when his calls became texts, except for that final one, the call from the police, when they found his shoes, empty, alone, on the beach.
“Speak low,” she tells herself, when all that she wishes she’d said to him collects in her mouth, builds up, when she wants to shout, force it out, say it all at once, and when she knows, hopes, that if she quiets her voice, if she slows it down, the words will come out, with time, one by one.
Matthew Torralba Andrews recently received an MFA in creative writing from Eastern Washington University. His work is also forthcoming in Cosmonauts Avenue. You can find him on Instagram @mtmdrews.