Speechless

A movement in the crowd. A raised hand. In her youth, she learned to raise her hand because it was silent. Now, it was the loudest thing she’d ever done.

Young women in curling lavender dresses gasped. Old women in pointed pantsuits muttered under their breath. Little girls in tutus whispered perplexion to their mothers. The woman in veiled white was the loudest of all. She stood silently still.

In the crowd, the woman in black lowered her hand. She understood their confusion, their surprise, their disgust. She’d made a sound over and despite an unspoken rule that women were to be seen, not heard. How dare she attempt what so many have buried their dignity over?

“Don’t do it,” she spoke, though there was no space for her words to fill. Instead, they rose into the air, dissolved by the understanding that had incited a moment ago when she’d raised her hand in a boom.

In a way, she realized, the sight of her objection had broken the rule. The people had never seen a sound so utterly unutterable. The cluttered noise she’d created had clogged the ears of the people in the chapel. She opened her mouth, but didn’t deliver her silently rehearsed proclamation. No one would hear it anyway. The damage was done. Instead, she turned in an echo of her actions, pushed past the people and out the door. She’d made all the noise she was allowed. Only time would tell if they’d listen.

Photo Credit: Grace Haugk, Canva