Changed

Homecoming

Celeste L. Baron closed her eyes, laid back till the tips of the tall grass hit the small of her back, and felt the wind brush her cheeks, her lips, her bare mid-drift, all the way down to her toes. As she sat there in the silence, she reflected on the past few months spent there, at first so negligent, now the thought of leaving saddened her. She had made so many friends, ones who understood what she was going through and some who had it way worse. She sighed as she felt a tap on her shoulder. Quincy, her twin brother, took her arm and led her to the car out front where their driver was waiting for them. She looked back once more and admired the pond out front with the stone bench where her roommate and she had had their first conversation. Where Ms. Thomas had hugged her and told her that it would be okay, where she finally accepted the truth.

As she sat in the back of the limousine while peeking out of the rolled-down window, feeling the slight breeze on her face, she silently laughed to herself, feeling like a golden retriever with its head out and tongue hanging out the side of its mouth. Suddenly the thought struck her that her puppy, Bear, was at home waiting for her. Tears started welling in her eyes. Quincy, who was in the back seat with her, squeezed her hand. She smiled up at him, giving him a look that told him she was okay. Her brother and her were the complete opposites but were like best friends. In fact, leaving him behind 3 months ago was even harder than leaving home itself. Going home, she thought. She was going home.

The thought of home excited her, made her nervous. Would everything be different? How would her parents act around her now that everything had changed? What would her friends think of this new Celeste? Her boyfriend, would he still be her boyfriend, or did he find someone else? As the miles dwindled down, her slight nerves turned into full blown anxiety, finally getting to the point where she couldn’t bare the silence, er the stillness, anymore. She grabbed into her bag and dug, desperately. When she found what she was looking for, she let out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding.

The small maroon booklet with the tattered binding was her escape now a days. She couldn’t go anywhere without it now. Before 3 months ago, she loved to escape into the strings and sounds of an acoustic guitar or the white and black keys of the piano, but now, without those things, she had to resort to other methods of coping and being herself. Three months ago she started writing; she had become quite good, or so she had been told. She wrote poetry, lyrics – that would have to go unsung, without a melody – short stories, and used the small book as a diary or a journal when necessary. Like now. She was dying to get her frustrations out, she could feel the tension building and felt like she could scream,  since she couldn’t do that or play music, she would have to deal with writing about her feelings.

She scowled at the paper. Feelings. Feelings made things so complicated. She wished she could control them, among other things of course. Like the fact that as of three months ago, she was told that in a few weeks’ time she would no longer be able to hear. As the memory of that day at the doctor’s office danced in her mind, she scribbled on the paper. She wrote, “My name is Celeste and I am deaf.”