Share a story about the furthest you’ve ever traveled from home.
The phone rings—
but it is not today’s voice I hear,
it is the echo of six years old,
pressed between my brother,
my sister,
and suitcases stacked in the sky-blue wagon,
wood-paneled and wide as the horizon.
The border guards ask their questions—
as if love must be proven with paper—
and my father’s hand, steady with certificates,
delivers us across the threshold
to the dream my mother had carried
longer than her marriage,
longer than her silence.
And then—
Niagara.
Not just water,
but thunder breaking the world open.
We stood on the edge of forever,
our eyes wide as the mist,
our laughter rushing louder than the falls themselves.
We picnicked on the lip of wonder,
and when the sun began to lower,
we cried to stay—
not knowing the road home
would be seven and a half hours of forgetting,
not knowing the memory would still call
half a lifetime later.
The call rings again.
I let it play into silence.
Some voices are not meant to be answered,
only remembered.
The Writings of Felina Silver 
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