Thursday, November 9, 2023

Brandon stood on the small stage at the front of the lecture hall. His voice was loud and clear as he introduced his thesis. His big sister and research partner smiled at him from the front row, taking notes on the very project she had helped him study.

At the end of his talk, he joined his sister at the foot of the stage. A student approached them.“I just wanted to tell you, your study last month really helped me and my dad talk through our issues. Thank you both so much!” Several others gathered around, each one waiting to offer their own gratitude.

When the last of the students had left the hall, Emily turned to him and grinned. “Do you see what you are doing?” She asked. “Their lives are changing! You are helping them so much!”

“We both are.” Brandon smiled back, gathering his notes into a folder.

“I just do the research.” Emily laughed, pulling on her coat. “You’re the one who makes it easy for them to understand. You’re the one who makes it… inspiring!”

“No, no. My voice… it doesn’t really matter.”

“Brandon.” She looked him in the eyes. “Someday, you will see that I am right. In fact, I can’t wait to hear you tell me so.” Her eyes sparkled.

Arm in arm, they walked out of the hall and into the October chill.

Brandon woke up from his dream. It had taken him long enough to fall asleep, only to be revisited by a memory from twelve years ago. Angela’s song danced around his mind, and Brandon replayed their conversation from a few hours earlier.

An idea started to glow in Brandon’s mind, like a seed just starting to sprout.

Brandon switched on his lamp, reaching for the notebook. He filled one page, then two, three, four, five, his thoughts organized in scattered clumps.

The next morning, he wrote a letter to the president of the University. He addressed it, smacked on a stamp, and sent it out with the mailman.

 A week later, Brandon stood at the front of the packed lecture hall. He cleared his throat, shuffled his notes, and licked his lips, looking down at his first page where the poem was written. He tried to read out the first line, but his voice was tiny, barely even a whisper. He had forgotten how to speak, in those years of hiding and worrying. Brandon cleared his throat again, and spoke louder. Not loud enough, but audible this time.

 Slowly, Brandon’s voice grew. His words became clearer, bolder, more confident. By the end of his poem he was practically spitting at the microphone, and he reigned it back in.

 It was as though his quietness had taken over, and had absorbed the voice deep inside himself. But it had been waiting, waiting for its moment to speak again. Brandon finished the poem, paused for a breath, and began his speech.