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Ellipsis in a Memoir About Silence
When my mother died, she left behind three boxes of letters, two address books, and one instruction written on the back of an envelope: Keep what matters; burn what doesn't. My sister wanted the photographs; I, the letters. Neither of us said why.
For years, our family had treated silence as if it were a form of good manners. We discussed journeys, recipes, school results, the weather. We did not discuss my grandfather's disappearance, my father's estrangement from his brother, or the months my mother spent away from home when I was nine. She called that period "the winter I was tired." My aunt, "the year nobody knew what to do." I called it nothing at all.
That habit of omission shaped the way we remembered. My sister recalled the facts; I, the gaps between them.